Memoirs of Hyppolite Clairon, the celebrated French actress: with reflections upon the dramatic art, written by herself

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THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY

OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES

MEMOIRS

OF

HYPPOLITE CLAIRONi

THE CELEBRATED FRENCH ACTRESS :

WITH

REFLECTIONS

UPON-

THE DRAMATIC ART:

WRITTEN BY HERSELF.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH,;
IN TV/0 VOLUMES.

\ OL. L

I-^IVlf D rOR O. C. AVD T- ROBINSON, P ATERNOSTER«R,0 Wf

Ejr S. Himilion, Fileon-Cnurt, Ftctt-Sctecb

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PREFACE. -^^P ^-^^ f\2.t:

^ / 9-0 0

1 HE memoirs of celebrated artists, as
well as those of eminent poets and il-
lustrious philpsophers, are equally in-
teresting to those who admife their
genius, as to those who design to ^read
their footsteps. One feels ^ curiosity
to learn by what incidents they were
guided in their choice of profession, and
by what studies and means tjiey reached
that high degree of perfecti^^ which
procures for them the suffrages of their
own age, and the remembrance of pos-
terity. Their reflections on the art pr '
the sciences which they profess are
precepts which their followers Cplkct,
a ^

(*%,- 4^ \^ 4^ ^ J fs^ Ai^

IV PREFACE."

and by which they are frequently en-
abled to shorten the thorny path which'
leads to celebrity.

The work of HyppoliteClairon com-
bines in itself all those advanta2:es. This
celebrated actress is -yet alive j she re-
sides at Paris ; and it is at nearly her
eightieth year that she appears to have
recovered, for the purpose of writing
her memoirs, that strength of colouring,
and justness of expression, which di-
stinguished her style when in the bloom
of youth,

Hyppolite Clairon was born in ob-
scurity. Her early education was,
therefore, neglected, and at ten years
old she scarcely could read. Her ta-

PREFACE. , y

knt for the stage, however, was al-
ready manifest. From, her windows
she was accustomed to see mademoi-
selle Dangeville receive her lessons in
dancing, and she learned to imitate.
The applauses which were lavished on
these, her first attempts at imitations,
heated her youthful imagination ; and
for the future she dreamt of nothing
but of securing the praise she had
gained. Shortly afterwards she was
brought to the theatre, where the en-
tertainments of the evening were Le
Compte D' Essex and Lcs Folies Amour -
euses. Next day she was able to re-
peat above a hundred lines of the tra-
gedy, and two-thirds of the after-piece ;
she could even imitate the tones an4
gestures of the performers. Her mo-
a 3

VI PREFACE.

ther designed • her for a working bu-
siness 'y but the sprightly daughter
could not endure the labour of the
hands. One day, when the mother
was inflicting on her the punishment
of her idleness, she cried out, ** Well,
you had better kill me at once ; for if
not, nothing shall prevent me from
being a player !"

It soon became necessary to deter-
mine ; and Hyppolite appeared at the
Italian theatre before she was quite
twelve years old. Some time after-
wards she ViTas engaged in the Rouen
company -, she was applauded by the
audience, and astonished her employers.
It was here she acquired the habits of
the theatre. After having appeared

PREFACE. ViU

successively at different theatres, she
at last presented herself at the Comedie
Francais. She insisted on playing first-
rate characters, and tp make her first
appearance in that of Fhedre, — The
managers laughed at her presumption 5
but she was resolved, and succeeded.
After having performed for twenty
years at this theatre, with great sue-'
cess, she went into Germany, and took
up her residence in the neighbourhood
of the Margrave of Anspach, who ap^
peared to entertain for her, if not love,
at least a very lively friendship. But to
use her own expression, — " there is no
court so little as not to have its Nar-
cissus:" she was persecuted here, and
returned to her country,
a 4

Vm - PREFACE.

Hyppolite Clairon terminates this re-
cital by a critique on the theatre, in its
present state, which appears to carry
severity to a degree that borders on in-
, justice. It is interesting, nevertheless,
to relate the judgment of a performer
so celebrated -, for, notwithstanding the
spirit of prejudice by which it appears
to have been dictated, it yet seems to
inculcate truths which it is for the
interest of the art should be kept in
mind, as well by the public as by the
performers.

• Thous^h mademoiselle Clairon has
her memory impressed with the pror
ductions of the best French poets, she
yet resorts to the theatre, to feel that

PREFACE.' ix

additional interest which the beauties
of action never fail to add to the. beau-
ties of composition. " But, alas !"
says she, " what do I meet in these re-
presentations but the vulgarity of the
lowest classes of life ;

————*' No principle of art —

No idea of the dignity of the character j

" every one plays after his own fashion,
and forgets that the performer should
accommodate himself to those with
whom he plays ; that it is his duty to
exert some effort, to make some sacri-
fice to the ensemble of tiie piece, and to
secure effect, I observe no unity of
tones, no dignity of action. I have seen
heroes throw themselves flat on their
belly, and sometimes walk on their

X PREFACE.

knees. I have seen indecency of dress
carried jso far, that the actress appeared
under the single covering of a flesh-co-
loured taffety, and exactly fitted to the
skin from head to foot. I have been
stunned with ranting, and disgusted
with buffoonery ; and, to complete all,
the pit has cried out Bravo I

'* It is not for me to decide, whether
the public and the performers of the
present day are wrong, or whether the
public and the performers of my day
are right ; but I may be permitted to
say, that there is not the least trait of
resemblance between the two."

It is a proverb, * that old people boast

PREFACE. Xi

of tne past, at the expense of the pre-
sent ; perhaps madame Clairon, spite
of the strength of mind which she pos-
sesses, has yielded to this weakness. It
is certain, that the French tragic stage .
has alvyays wanted that effect, resulting
from the coincidence of efforts in the
performers, with the want of which
she reproaches the present stage j but
had she seen her e/e've Rancourt play
Agrippine or Cleopatre, Clitemnestre
or Medea j if she had seen the affecting
Degarcius shed tears in Zaire ; if she
had* been present when Talma, not
merely represented, but became Nero or
Charles IX. Egistheus or Macbeth, it
were impossible that she could have
said the French performers displayed

Xli PREFACE.

no principle of the art, no idea of tiie
dignity of character. It may be grant-
ed, indeed, that in France, as well as
elsewhere, the tragic scene is occupied
by persons, the great majority of whom
are of moderate talents j and that the
men of ability, occupied in political
pursuits, are not enough attentive to
the arts ; but is it to be believed, that
in former days the theatrical perform-
ers of France were perfect? The critics
of those times assure us that they were
not. At all times, and every where,
mediocrity is the character of the mul-
titude ; and great talents are among the
most rare productions of nature.

A candid man will be equally distant

PREFACE. Xiii

.from a blind respect for what is ancient,
and from an unjust prejudice against
what is modern. Nothing, no doubt,
is more useful to the arts than an imita-
tion of great models ; but there must
always be reserved to genius the privi-
lege of quitting the point at which
others have stopped, and advancing
still nearer to the goal. Madame
Clairon herself has given an example
of this J she tells us that she herself
was the inventor of a new style of play-
ing ; and that, after having tried it at
Bourdeaux with success, she came to
Paris, determined to introduce and
establish it there, or to quit the stage.
She succeeded : she dared to play Ro-
dogune in a manner different from
mademoiselle Gaussin. That charm-

XIV PREFACE,

ing actress, so celebrated by Voltaire,
gave to this part a grace and simplicity
. which were quite inconsistent with the
character of the princess. Madame
Clairon had the courage to represent
the character in its natural colours, and
to open a new path. She accomplish-
ed her purpose. Nevertheless, after
the play, she overheard the celebrated
Duclos say, in a high and authoritative
tone, ** that she ought not to play ten-
der characters after madame Gaussin."
" Surprised," says madame Clairon,
** at a decision so crude, fearing the
impression which it might make on
those who heard him, and overcome
by a feeling of anger, I immediately
approached him, and said, * What !
Rodogune a tender character, Mon-

PREFACE. XV

sleur ! — a Parthian, a fury, who de-
mands from her lovers the heads of
their mother and queen — this a tender
character! A pretty judgment, truly!'
Terrified myself at what I had done,
tears overcame me, and I fled, amidst
unbounded plaudits."

Madame Clairon proves, by these
anecdotes, that it is sometimes right to
reject received opinions, if one would
improve on an art.

The Memoirs of this celebrated ac-
tress are filled with interesting anec-
dotes, in which sometimes characters
very celebrated in the reign of Lewis^
XV. make their appearance ; particu-
larly marshal Richlieu, who does not
play here a very honourable part. We

Xvi PREFACE.

here see her, indignant at the excom-^
munication of the players, employ all
her influence to have this ridiculous
^ anathema removed ; and that, if she
failed in the enterprise, it was only by
the folly of a courtier, who, before his
master, became almost an ideot, and
trembled like an infant.

Is it possible to avoid laughter,
when we are told, that by one of
those singularities which seem to be
presages, she was baptised on one
of the days of the carnival, by a cu-
rate disguised as an harlequin ? But one
reads with more surprise the follow-
ing story : A young man, who was
passionately fond of her, but could not
procure a return of his passion, died,
threatening to haunt her during the

PREFACE. XVll

remainder of her life ; and, in fact,
she is frequently purfued by plaintive
cries, which every body hears -, by
flashes like those of a musket-shot,
which, however, are harmless, but
which every by-stander can see ; by
noises like the clapping of hands ; and,
in fine, by aerial mufic. A great num-
ber of persons have been w^itnesses of
these singular phenomena ; but the
cause or author of them has never been
discovered.

One would be tempted to believe
that madame Clairon had been deceived
by an illusion in her advanced age, but
that the recital of these strange facts is
contained in a letter written by her

VOL. I. b

XViil PREFACE.

long before she arrived at an age when
we are apt to be thus imposed on.
Besides, she cites facts and persons,
and appears to be in no degree supef-^
stitious. Were these appearances then
produced by some tricks of natural
philosophy, performed by the friends
of the deceased, to torment her ? Of
this we are left in doubt.

In this collection we perceive the
same pen which traced these anecdotes
with so much lightness and grace ex-
press strongly the most profound sen-
timents. We here find madame Clairon
giving to a female friend counsels which
every young woman should have conti-
nually before her eyes. We find also
a letter written with a great degree of

PREFACE. XIX

do^uencfe to the Margrive of Anspach,
fo dissuade him from abdicating his
power; and she has interspersed her
work with precepts of practical morali-
ty, which would do honour to our
greatest philosophers.

Tn conclusion, she offers some reflec-
tions on theatrical declamation. We
have poetics, essays on music, on paint-
ing, and on all the arts. On the co-
mic art, as it may be called, which is
certainly the most difficult, we have
only tradition. Like those historic facts,
which, in their descent from age to age,
at length assume a tinge of fable, the
traditions of the theatre, confided to the
unfaithful memory of individuals, have
become unnatural and untrue as they
b2

XX PREFACE.

]>ecame old. The character which in
the days qf Moliere was a living cha-
racter known in society, is at this day
only a burlesque caricature, because,
in each generation through which it
has descended, it has received an addi-
tion. We ought then to preserve with
gratitude the observations offered by
those who have been distinguished on
the stage. It is necessary to fix this
great art by written tradition and fixed
precepts.— Baron was the first actor of
his time. Fifty years after him Le Kain
appeared; and some contemporaries pre-
tend that he has not yet had a successor.
Whence comes this ? Because there are
no fixed principles 5 because the dis-
coveries and observations made by great
performers perish with them; and their

PREFACE. XXI

successors, obliged to commence the
study of their art by their own obser-
vations, throw it back to its origin.

Who better qualified than madame
Clairon to fix these principles ? After
twenty years of brilliant success, one
has a right to give advice as a les-
son. She was one of the most illus-
trious actresses of her time : and I shall
conclude by citing an anecdote inserted
in the Encyclopedia by one of her con-
tem.poraries, and which proves to what
a high degree of perfection she had
carried her art :

*' Madame ClairoH, who plays the
*' character of Ariane with so much
** spirit and truth, received one even-
b :)

XXll PREFACE.

*' ing those warm plaudits which she
*' so well merited. In that scene where
*' Ariane inquires, with her confidante,
" who can be her rival, at this verse —

** Is it Megiste, Egle, who renders him faithless ?

** the actress saw a man who, with
** te^rs in his eyes, leaned towards
" her, and cried out in a smothered

*< voice — ' No ! No ! it is Phedre ! ' -

" This w^as the voice of nature ap^
*^ plauding the perfection of art."

TO THE

EDITOR OF THE PUBLICISTE'',

Issy, near Paris, 25tli Thermidor.
CITIZEN,

1 READ in your journal of the 25th
instant, an article which announces an
edition of my Memoirs, published in
Germany, and in the German language.
I did entrust the manuscript of my
Reflections upon the Dramatic Art,
and my own Memoirs, to a foreigner,
and a man of letters, whom I greatly
love and esteem. The intimate know-
ledge I possess of his principles and

* This letter was printed in this journal on the
28th Thermidor, 6th year.

b 4.

xxlv

morality induces me to reject the idea
of his having deceived me by such a
publication. If I wsls to name my
friend, all who are acquainted with
him would do him the same justice.
The edition cannot but, be a surrepti-
tious one.

My intention was, that this work
should not have appeared till ten years
after my death ; but this accident, and
the fear of being thought deficient in
gratitude to the public and my coun-
try, have determined me to publish it.
I declare then, that the only edition
I can avow is, the one printed in
French, under my own inspection, and
which shall be published as soon as
possible.

XXV

I conjure you, citizen, to rest assured
I shall ever retain a grateful remem-
brance of the very handsome manner
in which your correspondent has been
pleased to speak of me.

(Signed)

CLAIRON,

TO THE

CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

PAGE

Memoies of Hj-ppolite Clairofi' • .......... 1

Reflections upon the Dramatic Art- • * ,• • 3^

Enunciation ; or, the Management of the Voice 3lf

Strength 40

On the Necessity of referring every thing to Art 4f ■

Memory 5^

Exterior Ql

Tyrants 6Q

Kings Gj

Principal Male Characters- > ib.

On Young Men performing Principal Characters 6^

Confidants 71

Division of Women's Characters ^4:

Mothers 70

Vehement and impassioned Characters 7^

Tender Characters Si

Confidantes 82

Dress 83

On the Danger of Traditions 86

On the Use of White Paint 88

xxvlil INDEX.

PACJE

Talents necessary to be acquired for the Stage :

Dancing and Drawing P7

Music gg

Languages, Geography, and Belles Lettres 100

General Reflections ..- 113

Portrait of Mademoiselle Dumesnil 133

Character of Monime 147

Hermione • • 152

Theatrical Schools 158

Orosmane '• 1 72

Study of Pauline in Polieucte 173

Observations on the Character of Roxane in

Bajazet 1 80

On the Tragedies of Manlius and Venice Sauvee 1 87

On Cornelie, in the Death of Pompey 18<)

Phedre 19O

Blanche, in Blanche and Guiscard igS

On M. de la Touche, and his Tragedy of Iphi-

genie in Tauris 207

The Two Electras 221

MEMOIRS

OF

HYPPOLITE CLAIRON.

Jn the year 1743, my youth, and the
success with which I had appeared
at the opera and the French theatre,
procured me a considerable number of
admirers, among whom were several
worthy and sensible characters. M. de
S., son of a merchant of Brittany, about
thirty years of age, and possessing an
handsome figure, with a cultivated un-
derstanding, was one of those who had
made the deepest impression on me.
His manners evinced the education of
a gendeman, and of one ufed to the

VOL. I. B

2
best company. His reserve and ti-
midity, which scarce allowed him to
explain himself, even by his looks,
made me distinguish him from among
all my lovers. After I had been some
time the object of his attentions, ^
permitted his visits at my house, and
left him no room to doubt of the
friendship with which he had in-
spired me. Perceiving I ^\^s of an
easy and tender disposition, he was
patient, trusting time would produce
in my breast a stronger sentiment than
that of friendship.— * Who can tell?'
* Who can say what may happen ?' Such
were his frequent remarks -, but by an-
swering with candour to all the ques-
tions which my reason or my curiosity
dictated, he entirely ruined his cause.

3

Ashamed of being the son of a citi-
zen, he had disposed of his effeds, in
order to expend the produce at Pa-
ris, under a more elevated title. That
displeased me. To blush for himself
seemed to me to justify the disdain
of others. His humour was glooiiiy
and melancholy. * He was too well ac-
quainted with men,' he would say, ' not
to despise and shun them.' His plan was
to live only for me, and that I should
live for hitti alone ;• — that displeased me
still more, as you may well imagine.
I might have been content to have
been restrained by a flowery wreath,
but I could not brook being confined
by a chain. I from that moment saw
the necessity of destroying the flatter-
ing hope which nourished his attach-

4.

ment, and of disallowing his frequent \U
sits. This determination, which I per-
sisted in, produced a serious indispo-
sition, during which I rendered him
every possible care: but my constant
refusal to indulge the passion he en-
tertained for me made the wound still
deeper ; and, unfortunately, his brother-
in-law, to whom he had given a power
of attorney to receive the property he
was entitled to from the sale of his
effedts, left him in such extreme want
of money that he was compelled to
accept such loans as I could accom-
modate him with. This circumstance
was a deep mortification to him. — You
will perceive, my dear Henry, the im-
portance of keeping this secret in your
bosom. I respect his memory, and

would riot abandon it to the insulting
pity of mankind. Preserve the same
religious silence which I have now for
the first time violated, but have only
done out of my profound esteem for
you.

At length he recovered his property,
but never his health. I considered his
absence from me would be to his ad-
vantage, and therefore constantly re-
fused both his letters and his visits.

Two years and a half passed between
our first acquaintance and his death.
He entreated me to assuage by my pre-
sence the last moments of his life. My
engagements prevented me complying
with his request. He died in the pre-

B3

(5

senoe of his domestics, and an old lady^
whom he had alone for some titne suf-
fered to attend him. He then lodged'
upon the Rampart, near la Chausse©
d'Antin, which had just begun to be
built. I resided in la Rue de Bussy,),
near la Rue de Seine, and Abbey of
St. Germain. My mother, and several
of my friends, generally supped with
me. My visitors wrere, an intendant of
the Privy Purfe, whose friendship was
of infinite service tome; the good Pi-
pelet, whom you formerly knew and
admired; and Roseley, one of my com-
panions at the theatre, a young man
of respectable birth and talents. The
suppers of this period, though the
company was small, were much more
entertaining than the most expenfive

i

f^tes have been for these forty years
past. It was at one of those suppers,
and when I had been singing an air
with which my friends expressed them-
selves extremely delighted, that, just as
the clock struck eleven, our ears were
struck with the most piercing cry I had
ever heard ; its long continuance and
piteous sound astonished every one. I
fainted away, and was near a quarter of
an hour insensible.

The intendant was amorous and jea-
lous. When I revived, he faid to me
with some degree of spleep, " that the
signals of my rendezvous were some-
what too noisy," I answered, ** that I
was mistrefs of myself, and at liberty to
receive at all hours whoever I thought
B 4-

8

proper, therefore signals were altoge-
ther useless; and" added I, " that which
you call one is of tod dreadful a nature
to announce the soft moments dedi-
cated to love." My paleness, the tre-
mor which still remained upon me,
the tears which flowed in spite of my
efforts, and my intreaties that my com-
pany would remain with me a part of
the night, convinced them I was igno-
rant of the cause which had produced
the noise. We reasoned as to what it
could have been the effect of, and de-
termined to set people to watch in the
street, in order to afcertain it, in case it
fhould be repeated.

Every one in the house, my friends,
my neighbours, the police even, have

9
heard the same sort of cry repeated
under my windows at the same hour,
and appearing to proceed from the air.
There was no doubt of its being in-
tended for my hearing in particular;
for though I rarely supped in town, yet
when I did, the cry was never heard ;
but often, when I was conversing with
my mother and my servants upon the
subjedt, it would burst forth in the
midst of us. Upon one evening, the
president de B., at whose house I had
supped, condu<fted me to my own
house. As he was wishing me good
night, at my door, the cry alarmed us.
He, as well as nearly all Paris, can
vouch for the truth of this history.
The president was so terrified, that he

10

was conduced to his carriage more
dead than ahve.

Another time I asked my friend
Roseley to accompany me to la Rue
St. Honore, to biiy some articles of
dress, and pay a visit to mademoiselle
de St. P., who lodged near St. Den-
nis's gate. The only subjedt of our
conversation v^as the spirit, as he
called it. This young man, though
he ridiculed my adventure, was struck
with the singularity of it. He pressed
me to invoke the phantom, and pro-
mised to give full belief to it if it
answered me. Whether it was owing
to my weakness or daring boldness, I
know not, but T did as he had re-

11

quired of me. The same cry was
uttered three different times, with a
degree of rapidity and fhrillness ter-
rible beyond expression. When we
arrived at our friend's house, we were
obHged to have assistance to get out
of the coach, where we were found
sitting in a state of terror and insensi-
bihty.

After this scene I remained some
months without hearing any thing of
it : I thought I was quit of it for ever,
but I deceived myself.

All the theatrical exhibitions had
been ordered to Versailles, on account
of the marriage of the dauphin. We
were to repair there in three days; and

12

tlaere were some of the ad:resses for
whom lodgings had not been secured.
Among others, madame Granvalle had
none. She remained with me, ex-
pecting in vain that one would be pro-
cured for her. At three in the morn-
ing I offered to share my chamber
with her 3 it had two beds, one for my-
self, and another for my servant.: she
accepted my offer, and I gave her the
least of the two, and got into my own.
While my servant was undressing her-
self to lay by the side of me, I said
to her, " We are now almost at the end
of the world, and, besides, the wea-
ther is unusually tempestuous — the cry
would be rather embarrassed to find
us out here." It was at that instant ut-
tered. Madame Granvalle thought all

1.1

the demons of hell were in the room.
She ran in her chemise from the top to
the bottom of the house, and suffered no
one to sleep during the remainder of
the night. This however was the last
time I was troubled with the noife.

Seven or eight days after, while I
was enjoying myself in my ufual fo-
ciety, the clock struck eleven, and im-
mediately the firing of a gun was heard
against one of my windows. We were
all sensible of it, we saw the fire, and
heard the shot ; but upon examining,
the window had received no kind of
damage. We concluded that some
person had a design upon my life ; and
that having failed, it was necessary to
guard againfb a similar attempt in fu-

u

tare. The intendant went directly to
the house of M. de Marville, the lieu-
tenant of police, who was his friend.
He came, attended by proper officers,
and examined the house opposite mine,
but without discovering any ground
for suspicion. The following day the
street was narrowly watched — the offi-
cers of police had their eyes upon every
house, but, notwithstanding all their
attention, at the same hour for three
whole months, the same discharge was
always heard against the same frame of
glass, though no one could ever dis-
cover from whence it proceeded.— This
fad: is attested by all the registers of
police.

I became so accustomed to this new

trick of the spirit, as I supposed, that
had before haunted me, that I no longer
attended to it : and one evening, at the
hour of eleven, when it vi^as extremely
warm, I opened the window, and tlie
intendant and myself leant over the
balcony. The instant the clock struck
eleven the gun was discharged as usual,
and we both fell upon the floor appa-
rently lifeless. When we came to our-
selves, and found we were not hurt, and
acknowledged to each other that at the
moment the gun was fired we had each
of us received a violent slap on the
face, we could scarce refrain laughing
at the circumstance. The next day
nothing particular happened ; but the
day after! was invited by mademoiselle
Dumesnil to an entertainment she gave.

16

1 entered a coach at eleven o'clock
with my waiting- woman. ^ The moon
flione bright, and we proceeded along
the Boulevards or Suburbs, which
were then just beginning to be built
upon. We were examining those
houses which had been lately erected,
when my waiting-maid said, " Is it not
here M. de S. died ?" — " From the in-
formation he gave me, that should be
the place," said I, pointing with my
finger to a house which was before us.
The explosion of a gun was imme-
diately heard — the coachman urged his
horses, conceiving himself attacked by
robbers, and arrived at the place of
rendezvous scarce sensible. For my
part, I was impressed with a degree of
terror which it was long before I got

the better of. This was the last time
I was terrified by the firing of the
gun.

It was however succeeded by a noise
like the clapping of hands. — The par-
tiality of the public had so long ac-
customed me to this interruption, that
I for some time paid no attention to
it. My friends remarked it, and told
me they constantly heard it at eleven
o'clock, close to my door : they could
distinguish no one, and were convinced
what they heard must have been the
result of some supernatural cause.

As the noise had nothing terrible in
it, I did not observe what length of
time it continued. It was followed by

VOL. I, c

melodious sounds, which I paid as little
attention to. It seemed that a celestial
voice sung the most tender and pa-
thetic airs : the music commenced at
the corner of the street, and concluded
at the door of my house. Like all
the preceding sounds which had been
heard, it baffled all discovery as to the
cause. — 'About the end of two years I
was ceased to be disturbed altogether.

The house I inhabited was ex-
tremely noisy, on account of its prox-
imity to the market, and the number
of people who lived in that quarter.
J required retirem.ent for my studies, as
well as on account of my health, which
was much impaired. I was rather in
easy circumstances, and wished for a

19 -
tetter situation. I was told of a small
house in la Rue des Marais, which let
for 200 livres, where Racine was said
to have lived forty years with his fa-
mily. I was informed it was there
he had comoosed his immortal works,
and that there he had died ; that after-
wards it had been occupied by the ten-
der Lecouvreur, who had ornamented
and ended his days in it. The walls
of the house, said I, will be alone
sufficient to make me feel the sublimity
of the author, and acquire the talents
necessary for an actress \ it is in this
sanctuary I will live and die. I took
it, and put a bill upon the apartments
I had before occupied. Among the
number who applied for them were
several persons attracted solely by cu-

c 21

^0 ,
riosity. The public had never seen
me out of the theatre : they wished to
behold me divested of a crown, and i^ y.^^
supported by the characters of Cor-
neille, Racine, and Voltaire, reduced
to the simple rank of a Bourgeoise.—
I ilattered myself the alteration would
not appear to my prejudice, as I still
, retained the same sentiments and ha-
bits ; but you know I am rather fhort,
and that I was supposed by those \Vho
had never seen me off the stage to be
six feet high. At home I appeared in
my natural form : I never had recourse
to art except at the theatre. I was
fearful that when surveyed off the stage
the public would diminiih twice as
much from my stature as it had been
accustomed to add to it. I was sea-

21
sible that those who avoided Imposing
on the world had nothing to fear
• from its censure. Happily my nation
was not much given to reflection -, and
\ had the satisfaction of finding that
the public still continued to preserve
the same opinion with regard to my
figure.

What a digression ! you will say :
Your history Is already too long; abridge
it if you please, but do not add to it.—
I agree you are right, but you have re-
quired this history from me ; therefore,
as I am ignorant what you wish to be
informed of, I have thought it my duty
flot to omit any circumstance. I can-
not trace a single word of it without
recalling you to my imagination. Is
C3

22

it my fault, if, notwithstanding the
years I have passed, and the misfor-
tunes I have suffered, I still preserve
the illusions of a soul characterised by
sensibility ? It is for you I write ; I
imagine I am fpeaking to you, that you
are listening to my history, filled as it
is with tiresome repetitions, with that
sweetcomplacency which renders you
so dear to your friends and valuable to
society. Alas! it is with the deepest
regret I tear myself from the agreeable
chimera.

But to resume my subject :

I was informed that an elderly lady
wished to see my apartments, and that
she was waiting there for me. It has
ever been my principle to express the

23

greatest deference to age. I attended
her. An emotion which I was not
mistress of made me survey her from
head to foot. This emotion increased
when I perceived she experienced the
same feelings. I was only able to re-
quest her to take a seat : fhe accepted
my offer. We continued some time
silent 3 but our eyes left no room to
doubt the extreme desire we had to
address each other. She knew who I
was, but I knew her not : fhe felt that
the task was imposed on her to break
silence. The following was the con-
versation that took place between us :

** It is, madam, a long time since I
have been impressed with the most
anxious desire to become acquainted
c 4

24 '
with you. As I never frequent the the*
atre, and am unknown to those whom
you honour with your friendship, I
was apprehensive, if 1 addressed you
by letter, I might subject myself to a
denial in consequence of my motives
being misunderstood. The bill placed
upon your apartments has procured me
the happiness I wished for : pardon me
when I confess it is not that which has
brought rtne here, I am not rich enough
to take them ; nevertheless, I entreat
you to let me see them. The place
you have inhabited cannot but excite
an interest. Your talents have a de-
gree of celebrity which leaves no room
to doubt the superior endowments of
your mind. I perceive that 1 have not
been deceived as to your figure 5 I

25

desire to know if the description I
have received of your dweUing is as
faithful : and I trust you will allow me
to pursue my unhappy friend through
all the scenes of his hope and despair."

" It appears to me, madam, that the
agitation in which you behold me, and
which every word you utter augments,
makes it a duty I owe myself to in-
quire who you are, of whom you are
speaking, and what your business is
with me ? My character will hot allow
me to be made the sport or the victim
of any one !— Speak, orlfliallleaveyou."

** I was, madam, the best friend of
M. de S., and the only person he
suffered to be with him during the

26
last moments of his life. We have
both reckoned the days and hours
while speaking of you : sometimes
making you an angel, sometimes a
devil; — I, continually persuading him
to forget you, — he, constantly profess-
ing he should adore you to the grave. •
Your eyes bathed in tears, allow me to
ask you. Why you have rendered him so
miserable ? and how, possessing a ten-
der and sympathising soul, you could
refuse him the consolation of seeing
you, and of speaking to you for once
only before he died ?"

" We cannot command our hearts.
M. de S. was possessed of merit,
and many estimable qualities; but
bis gloomy, thoughtful, and despotic

27
disposition, made me equally dread his
society, his friendship, and his love.
To have made him happy, I must have
renounced the pleasures of society, and
even the exercise of my profession.
I was poor and proud : I vv^ished (and I
hope I shall always possess the same
disposition) not to depend upon any
one but myself. The friendship with
which he inspired me made me at-
tempt every means to induce him
to adopt sentiments more tranquil
and equitable. As I could not eifect
this, and was persuaded that his de-
rangement was less to be attributed to
the excess of his passion than to the
violence of his character, I formed
and kept the firm resolution of sepa-
rating myself entirely from him. I

^8
refused to see him in his last moments,
because the sight of him would have
rent my heart ; and I should have ap-
peared too cruel had I refused him
what he asked, and must have been
■wretched had I granted it him. — These,
madam, are the motives of my con-
duct : I dare flatter myself no one will
blame me."

" To condemn you would be unjust.
It is only to our God, our parents, and
our benefactors, we are bound to sa-
crifice ourselves. On this last point,
I am sensible, it was not from you
gratitude was due ; but his situation and
his passion overcame him, and your
last refusal hastened his latter mo-
ments. He counted every minute till

half past ten, when his servant in-
formed him you positively w^ould not
come to him. After a moment's silence,
he took my hand in a paroxysm of de-
spair, which terrified me, and ex-
claimed— * Cruel woman ! but she shall
gain nothing, I will pursue her as much
after my death as I have done during my
life /' — I endeavoured to calm him, but
he was no more."

I think, my friend, I need not tell you
the effect these last words had upon
me. I thought all the powers of hea-
ven and earth had united to torment
my wretched life : but, at length, time
and mature reason have restored calm-
■^ness to my mind. *' If," said I, " there
is no Superior Being who directs this^

30

world, it is impossible that one who
is dead can be brought back to life.
If there is a God — and all nature attests
there is one-^the attribute of his divi-
nity is justice and goodness : he will
never send into this abode of misery
and sorrow those whom he has deign-
ed to release from it. — What am I,
that I should suppose he concerns
himself with so humble an indivi-
dual ? How can I suppose that, gn my
account, he would derange the order
of nature to manifest his anger or his
goodness, or to point out to me the
means of avoiding misery or guilt?
Such cares may be worthy the Sove-
reign of the World, when the whole
human race are the objects of them r
but an individual is, perhaps, less in his

eyes than a grain of sand is in our^.
Let us adore him, let us merit his
mercies ; but attempt not to scrutinise
his ways !

By this mode of reasoning, and by
various reflections which occurred to
my mind, I attributed the extraordi-
nary circumstances which had hap-
pened to me entirely to chance. I
know not but they w^ere the effect of
chance ; but I cannot deny that what is
so called, has the greatest influence on
what passes in the world.

Now rest awhile : — my history and
reflections are finished ; make what you
can of them. If it is your intention
that what I have written should pass

36

out - of your own hands, I entreat ydU
to suppress the initial letter of the
name, and the entire name of the pro-
vince.

I send you my original, that you
may judge, by a labour so far above my
strength, how inviolable and tender is
the attachment I retain for you.

Adieu I

S3

REFLECTIONS
THE DRAMATIC ART

XT is the wish of many that I should
write my sentiments relative to an art
which I have long professed. It is
supposed that the reflections I have
made, in order to render myself sup-
portable in the eyes of the public,
may be of some use to those who are
destined to pursue the same career.
Perhaps the public, or, at least, the ad-
mirers of theatrical representations,
will contemplate with some degree of
pleasure the road I have followed, in
order to acquire their favour. But re-

VOL. I. D

54-

ilection and writing are two such dif-
ferent things ; it appears so extraor-
dinary to me to comprehend any thing
without the aid of physiognomy, ges-
ture, and speech -, I am so diffident of
myself; that I tremble as much in
taking up the pen as I once did in ap-
pearing before the public. — Friendship
imposes the task upon me, and my
compliant disposition cannot resist.
Without any regular plan, perhaps
without any system, but certainly with-
out vanity, I am about to trace what I
deem necessary to the attainment of
this art, — an art much more difficult
than it is generally supposed to be.

S3

ENUNCIATION;

OR,

THE MANAGEMENT OF THE VOICE.

As it must be the chief object of the
actress to be heard distinctly in all parts
of the theatre, it is therefore an indispen-
sable requisite that she should be pos-
sessed of a strong and sonorous voice.

In order that she may be enabled to
give the necessary shade to the picture
she means to represent, her voice must
be clear, harmonious, flexible, and sus-
ceptible of every possible intonation.

A voice which is deficient in point
of compass or expression can never
be adequate to characters where the
D 2

36

stronger passions are displayed, fuch
as Phedre, Orosn^ane, &c.

A lisping, or inarticulate mode of
pronunciation, false tones, harsh sounds,
or a provincial accent, are obstacles
which are insurmountable iii an actress
who attempts vehemence, grandeur,
justness, or sensibility of expression^

The verses of Racine and Voltaire
are the most truly poetical and har-
monious our language can boast : yet,
let the same verses be recited by one
who has an easy and clear delivery, and
another who has a defective pronuncia-
tion, and you will perceive that she who
possesses the clear delivery will divest
them of no pait of their beauty.-— Mis-

S7

tress of the faculty of managing her iii^
tonations, of extending or repressing her
sounds as the sense may require, sus-
ceptible of every species of modulation,
she expresses each verse in all its native
charms and dignity; whilie the other,
whose organs are defective, is obliged
to speak slow, in order to be under-
stood; or if she speaks fast, to give
utterance to inarticulate sounds. The
precision, the harmony, theelegance, the
strength, the force, of the language and
sentiment, — all are destroyed.

If we call to our mind all the actors
and actresses who have appeared upon
the stage, we shall find that the defect
of which I am speaking is incompatible
with great talents. A fine figure, or
D 3

38
*he charms of youth and beauty, will
sometimes induce the public to over-
look defects in those who possess such
attractions: but beauty and youth pass
away. The hopes which may have been
formed of those who have natural de-
fects, which always increase with age,
are seldom realised. I will mention
madame Granvalle ; this charming co-
median, distinguished for her grace-
fulness, spirit, and vivacity, aided by
what is called theatrical decency^ has
quitted the stage, where she will never
be equalled in the .character of genteel
comedy, to which her talents were
confined. Though not yet fifty years
of age, she has been compelled to re-
tire, in consequence of that disgust
with which her lisping manner of speech

39
inspired the public, whose idol she had
before been. Youth and beauty are
charms highly esteemed in the world j but
something more is required on the stage.

I agree, however, that there may
be exceptions. A single imperfection
may, in no respect, destroy that union
of gaiety, spirit, talent, and ease, with
which some are gifted, particularly in
comedy : — the habit of stammering,
which Poisson had, perhaps, added to his
comic abilities, even in his youth. But,
in general, to be perfectly understood
is the first obligation of a comedian ;
and those v^ho have impediments in
their pronunciation should neither have
the ambition, nor be suffered to tread
the boards of a theatre.
D 4

40

STRENGTH.

A GOOD constitution is a material
point: — there is no profession more
fatiguing. Irritable nerves, weak lungs,
or delicate constitutions, cannot long
sustain the weight of tragic charac-
ters.

I have found, in the course of my
time, a number of young authors and
fine ladies who have thought that no-
thing was more easy than to perform
Mahomet, Merope, &c. ; that the au-
thor had done all that was necessary;
; that to learn the parts, and to leave the
rest to Nature, was all the adtor had to
do. Nature! — how many use this word

41

without knowing its meaning.^ — The
difference of sex, of age, of situation,
of time, of countries, of manners, and
of customs, demand different modes of
expression. What infinite pains and
study must it not require to make an
actor forget his own character ; to iden-
tify himself with every personage he
represents; to acquire the faculty of
representing love, hatred, ambition, and
every passion of which human nature
is susceptible, — every shade, every gra-
dation by which those sentiments are
depictured with their full extent of co-
louring and expression.

There are no arts or professions but
have certain defined principles. — Are
there then none required to direct the

42
tragedian? Is it only in the history of
mankind he must obtain his informa-
tion ? Reading of itself would be no-
thing J he must meditate upon, and ren-
der himself familiar with, what he reads,
even to its minutest details ; he must
adapt to every character the genius of
the nation to which it belongs ; he must
reflect without intermission ; repeat an
hundred and an hundred times the
same thing, in order to surmount the
difficulties he meets with at every step.
It is not enough to study the character:
he must study the history of it, in or-
der to develop the intention of the au-
thor, feel the beauties of his composi-
tion, and adapt his character to the ge-
neral scope of the work : he must scru-
tinise the hearts of all connected with

43

the scene, attend to the relations they
bear towards each other; and, finally,
he must be able to comprehend why
what he hears, and what he sees, is so
represented or expressed. — Such are the
private labours which an actor has to
liilfil.

I am fur from thinking that others
may not infinitely exceed me. Those
who possess a greater degree of energy,
or enjoy a more perfect state of health,
than falls to my lot, may discover
sources of improvement which have
escaped me : but for the little abilities
I possess, I am indebted to the adoption
of that course of study which I have
traced. I was by nature strong and
persevering: labour was a pleasure to

44
Bie ; and it is only by having braved
misery and death that I have com-
pleted the twenty years requisite to
constitute an actor.— In addition to
what I have said, the most arduous
task is to be enumerated -, it is, the in-
dispensable necessity of having one's
mind continually impressed with events
the most dreadful and ter>tfele^ and with
images of the most horrid nature. The
actor who does not identify himself with
the character he represents is like a
scholar who repeats his lesson -, but he
who does so identify himself with the
personage, he is pourtraying — whose
tears seem the effect of Nature, who ab-
sorbs the idea of his own existence in
the miseries of an assumed character ; —
such a person must be wretched : and

45

I maintain that it requires a degree of
strength, almost beyond what human-
nature is endowed with, to perform the
characters of tragedy well for more than
ten years.

To these labours must be added
the study of different talents, and of
different acquirements, of which I ihall
speak hereafter. To this must be added
the fatigue of traversing the country at
stated seasons, the trouble of rehearsals,
' the necessity of a general course of read-
ing, the attention required with regard
to dress, the care due to domestic affairs,
and, lastly, the fatigue of representations.
After this enumeration, it is unnecessary
to infer how indispensable it is to possess
a healthy and strong constitution.

46

In recalling to mind my plan of study^
I hope I shall be pardoned for observing,
that I have often smiled at the folly of
those who have upbraided me for having
recourse to art. Alas ! v^^hat should I
have been without it ? Could I have per-
sonated Roxane, Amenaide, or Viriate ?
Should I be consistent if I was to apply
my own feelings and habits to such cha-
racters? Doubtless not. — How am I en-
abled to substitute the ideas, sentiments,
and feelings, which should distinguish
those characters, in lieu of my own ?
It is by art alone it can be done : for if
ever I have seemed to personate them in
a manner purely natural, it is because my
studies, joined to some happy gifts which
I may have derived from nature, have
conducted me to the perfection of art.

47

EXAMPLE,

ON THE NECESSITY Oif REFERRING EVEKY
THING TO ART.

The same actress commonly under-
takes the very opposite characters of
Ariane and Dido. These two perso-
nages have to manifest the same love,
the same fear, and the same despair.
If the actress, who is to represent
them, should take Nature merely for
her guide, is it to be supposed that
the same expression of the different
passions which is required in one of
those characters would be proper in
the other? Dido is a widow and abso-
lute queen -, her experience, and habits
of commanding, allow her to assume
an haughty look, an imperious tone of

48
voice, and a degree of dignity in her
reproaches. Ariane, on the contrary,
is a fugitive and suppliant princess ; she
ought to assume a downcast look v^hen
she is assuring her lover of her affec-
tion^ hef^ reproaches should be made
in mild and timid accents -, the mo-
'desty of her character should restrain
the violence of her despair; and it is
only when she is convinced of the per-
fidy of her sister she should entirely
abandon herself to the emotions of grief.
To personate these different characters,
the actress must arrange her physiognomy
and her deportment ; she must assume
gestures, mild or violent, disdainful or
timid, as the different characters may
require them. — Let me ask, can all this
be done without the assistance of art ?

49
It is more difficult to find good actors
than good actresses. Those who are
destined to the stage are, for the most
part, born of obscure and indigent pa-
rents. The impossibility of receiving
a liberal education, or of obtaining the
advantage of masters and books, the so-
ciety in w^hich those in indifferent cir-
cumstances are forced to live, prevent
the exertion of those talents which, in
a different situation, would have mani-
fested themselves.

Women have greater advantages. — •
There is very little difference in the
education of females, except with re-
gard to those of the highest rank. A
reasonable portion of ability, a good
figure, and a fair reputation, generally

VOL. I. E

50

are sufficient to procure them the pro-
tection of their own sex, and. are sure
to command the homage of the other.
Men of liberality and gallantry encou-
rage them ; they are more readily ad-
mitted into the society of men of letters,
and what is called good company ; they
have better opportunities of hearing,
seeing, and comparing ; their ideas are
enlarged, their reason is improved, their
understanding increased; and when sense
and beauty unite in them, their address,
their sensibility, their vivacity, and an
innate sentiment which makes them
think they may pretend to any thing,
give them the power of appearing
wherever their inclinations lead them.

Observe the diiFerence between those

51

women who are originally destined to
the seraglio of the Grand Seignor, com-
pared with what they are when the pre-
ference of their master withdraws them
from the rank of slaves. Racine has
described them in the character of
Roxane : and every woman, who is
conscious of her genius as an actress,
ought to make herself perfect in that
character.

Since the theatre has existed, we can
only reckon three actors capable of per-
forming the very frrst-rate characters.

These are Baron, Dufrene, and Le
Kain.— Baron had the advantage of be-
ing the pupil of Moliere. He was a
man of great ability, had a command-
E 2

52

ing figure, and passed his life amidst
persons of the first rank in France.

Like other actors, he declaimed, and
recited verses in his youth j but, in or-
der to exalt himself to a level with, and
to emulate those persons of superior
rank with whom he was • admitted as a
companion, he familiarised himself to
the simple and true grandeur; he dis-
played their manners in the characters
he represented 3 and it is to him we are
indebted for the first lessons of that art
which is always so difficult to attain.

•
. Dufrene was more dazzling than pro-
found.— He was noble, but never vehe-
ment; full of warmth, but without or-
der, without principles, without any of

53
those great features which characterise
genius. He was indebted for his suc-
cess to the superior beauty of his person,
and the excellence of his delivery.-—
He is, however, a proof that the pub-
lic in his time did not require from an
actor so much as they do at present.

. Le Kain was bred an artisan. His
figure was displeasing and aukward, his
stature was low, his voice discordant,
and his constitution weak j yet, with all
these disadvantages, he launched from
the workshop to the theatre ; and, with-
out any other guide than genius, with-
out any assistance but art, he attained
the reputation of the greatest actor, and
the most interesting and dignified of
men, — I am not speaking either of his
E 3

■54

first essays, or his latter exertions : in
the former he doubted, attempted, and
was often disappointed ; a circumstance
that could not fail to happen. In the
latter his strength did not second his in-
tentions. For want of physical faculties
he was often tedious and declamatory ;.
but in, the meridian of his faculties he
approached nearest of any to perfection,

I must, however, acknowledge, with-
out partiality, that he did not give the
sentiments of every author with equal
force.

He could not do justice to Corneille.
The characters of Racine were too sim-
ple for him. He pourtrayed the cliarac-
ters of neither of them well, except ia

55

some scenes which allowed his genius ;
those striking bursts of passions, without
which he never appeared to advantage.

His perfection was only complete in
the tragedies of Voltaire. — Like the
author, he constantly appeared noble,
true, sensible, profound, vehement, or
sublime. The talents of Le Kain were
of that class, that you overlooked the
disadvantages of his person.

His studies had been directed to

their proper object ; he was acquainted

with a variety of languages, he read

much, and formed an accurate judg.-

ment of what he read ; but without

recourse to art he could never have

made an actor.

E 4

S6

Allow me now to revert to tliose
principles from which I have in some
measure digressed. All men arc not
endowed with a creative genius. I will
endeavour to direct those who are in-
adequate to the pursuit of an original
system of their own, and for that purr
pose will resume my examination.

MEMORY.

It is only by constantly varying
dramatic representations, that the the-
atre can have attractions for the public ;
it is therefore necessary to have a
change of performances ready ', conse-r
quently, the memory of the performers
is a circumstance of the chiefest im-
portance.

57
He would be aii impolitic manager
who should engage an a6tor who had
not convinced him he was possessed of
what is indispensably necessary to the
profession, — a ready and correct me-
mory.

The actor who has a tardy and
sluggish memory cannot but be inade-
quate to the study of verse -, his atten^
tion is so much engaged in retaining
the words, that he has no time for re-
ilection :— it is impossible for him to
study the meaning of his author; his
ideas are restrained ; he can adopt no
principle on which to comprehend the
character he studies; he is unable to
form comparisons, he cannot do jus-

5S
tice to his author; but, on the con-
trary, is sure to derogate from the dig-
nity of the personage he represents.

One may, without study, possess a na-
tural abihty, and by that alone some-
times be enabled to give a just effect
to an author's sentiments. There are
many characters where such natural
ability is all that is requisite.

Brittanicus, Iphigenie, Hyppolite, Pal-
myre, are of this description, provided
the person who represents them joins
to such a natural talent the advantages
of youth, an harmonious voice, and a
graceful person. These kind of cha-
racters are within the reach of medio-

S9
crity of talents j those of Agrlppinc,
Achille, Phcdre, and Maliomet, re-
quire higher abilities.

The persons appointed to perform
these characters have as much to study,
to play them well, as the authors had to
describe them.

Without a quick, sure, and retentive
memory, it is impossible for an actor
to unite such profound studies with his
daily labours. Genius alone would be
insuiiicient : indeed, I doubt much, whe-
ther a person can possess much genius
or ability without a great memory ?

Without genius or ability one may
yet learn any thing with facility : but if

60
to those qualities are joined good sense,
docility, a flexible voice, and a noble
and elegant figure, we may rely with
confidence upon them.

In order to maintain the illusion of
'the scene, every personage of the dra-
ma ought to take as much care to keep
within the limtts of the character he
performs as the public are anxious to
exceed it in their imaginations.— When
an actor has considered his powers with
respect to the three points I have
enumerated ; namely, pronunciation,
strength, and memory ; he may then be
able to form some judgment as to what
he can undertake with hopes of suc-
cess.

\

61

EXTERIOR.

The English manners admit on the
stage what in this country would be
considered as highly disgusting. Ri-
chard the Third is represented with all
the defects he derived from nature. As
it is easier to deform than improve, it
therefore requires less efforts to assume
a vulgar than a dignified air ; but as he,
who in the same character avails him-
self of both, has more resources than
he who confines himself to one, I am
apt to think the dramatic art is less dif-
ficult at London than at Paris. — The
French critics only admit of elegant
and noble figures in tragedy; they would
laugh to see the personage, who was to
excite their terror or pity, appear with

^2

an humped back, or distorted limbs.
Every one is sensible, that the greatest
monarch may be as ill made, as auk-
ward, and have as vulgar an air as the
lowest peasant in his kingdom ; that
bodily infirmities, physical defects, and
low habits, seem to equalise him with
the rest of mankind; but, neverthe-
less, the respect which his rank im-
presses, the sentiment of fear or love
v/hich he inspires, and the pageantiy
with which he is surrounded, ahvays
impart to him a commanding aspect.

Tragedy presents the most faithful
picture of the policy, the crimes, the
virtues, and the miseries of the masters
of the world. All the personages who
represent it are noble, ail their actions

63

important, all their consequences seri-
ous ; but, after all, it is but a represen-
tation } we are all sensible of it ; and,
without the concurrence of every possi-
ble illusion, the public would only see
and hear the actor, and would lose the
pleasure of being deceived.

Achilles is announced, or any other
hero who has just vanquished singly an
host of formidable foes ; or a prince pos-
sessed of such charms and attractions,
that the greatest princess would, with-
out regret, sacrifice her throne, and even
her life, to him. His representative ap-
pears on the stage, and turns out to be
a diminutive puny man, of a disgusting
figure, without strength, without voice.
What then becomes of the illusion r 1

6^

do not conceive there can be any : yet
I have seen the caricature I have just
described assume any part that was of- •
fered him, and receive the most un-
bounded applause*.

0 1 you, w^o are destined to this
thorny career, avoid such an example.
The error of the public is momentary ;
in general its judgment is severe, en-
lightened, and capable of discerning ta-
lents. The censure of the pit can pre-
vent any actor's outstepping the modesty
of Nature. — However some may be
mean or impudent enough to cabal for
the purpose of obtaining partial ap-
plause, they are certain the public will,
in the end, form a proper estimate of
* Le Sieur U .

65

them ; and men of taste and discrimi-
nation must detect their feults. — Actors,
when left to rise or fall by their own
merits, will more seriously attend to
their duties: they will feel the neces-
sity of meriting those plaudits which
they cannot purchase, and-^^hich form
the only consolation 'of their profession.
Endeavour to possess what is necessary
to please tlie public taste ; never appear
upon the theatre without having re-
ceived from nature those gifts which
such a profession demands, or, at least,
without having the means and the in-
clination of attaining, by art and study,
an equivalent in lieu of what nature
has denied you.

This is my advice to ajl who wish

VOL. I. F

66
to perform, the characters of tragedy
with credit to themselves.

TYRANTS.
In casting the character of a tyrant,
I would recommend him to be person-
ated by a man who is tall, thin, and
hollow-eyed, dark thick eye-brows, and
a^gloomy countenance, one who never
speaks' or makes the slightest motion
without an air of mystery, and who, al-
together, has the appearance of a man
absorbed in thought and devoured by
remorse.

It appears to me, that an actor of this
description will have little more to do

JL

tlian Co learn his part i three fourths of
his studies will have been finished be-
forehand.

67

KINGS.

1 would recommend, for the""charac-
ter of a king, a man of a majestic de-
portment and venerable appearance,
with a commanding tone of voice, ex-
pressive of severity and mildness, and a

noble and stately gate ; — in short, an

»

appearance at once manifesting the dig-
nity of a sovereign, the experience of
a sage, and the serenity of a philo-
sopher.

PRINCIPAL iMALE CHARACTERS.

Those who perform the principal, male

charaders should be above the middle

size, and neither corpulent nor lean : a

corpulent man appears vulgar on the

stage, and a lean one insignificant. He
F 2

68

should be well made, and have no
apparent defect ; he should combine
an appearance of strength with ele-
gance.

If he is handsome, so much the bet-
ter, provided his beauty is masculine :
delicate features would be a defect.

These characters demand the greatest
expression, and the utmost command of
countenance. The actor must be able,
by his features, to express every mo-
tion of the soul. The countenance
which remains immoveable proves that
the actor has no feeling : if his fea-
tures are too much in motion, it shows
ignorance : Nature must be the guide
in this respect. The countenance is only

69
expressive on the stage, when the fea-
tures are large, the eyes full, the eye-
brows marked, the mouth rather pro-
jecting, and the hair brown. Small
features lose all their effect at a very
little distance ; a small eye may be
arch and lively, but never can be com-
manding j a mouth that falls inwards
can never express grief ; and fair hair
is unbecoming on the stage.

ON YOUNG MEN

PERFORMING PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS.

Young men may be allowed to at-
tempt principal characters, merely to
try their strength, without having pre-
pared themselves by that previous
study I have recommended ; yet there
are some characters, such as the Cid,

70
Don Pedro in Ines, and Seyde in Ma-
homet, which cannot be performed
but by persons of great talents. The
pubUc, however, excuses faults in young
men who are commencing the pro-
fession of actors. It is sensible the
difficulties they have to encounter are
only to be conquered by long and la-
borious study. By this indulgence it
encourages them; but, unfortunately,
if they meet with a little success, they
flatter themselves they are equal to
every character, and thus their vanity
ruins them. The fable of the frog
is the history of many young actors
whom I have known. I would advise
that no one should offer himself a can-
didate for public favour, till he has ac-
quired the means necessary to enable

71
him to attempt any character what-
ever within the scope of his genius.

CONFIDANTS.

The managers of theatres, and even
the actors themselves, imagine, that
any person is competent to perform the
characters of confidants. I am far from
being of that opinion : these charac-
ters require an attentive and accurate
judgment. They are often the repre-
sentatives of governors, princes, mi-
nisters, generals, embassadors, captains,
or favourites ; they are the depositories
of all secrets of state ; they are en-
trusted with the most important com-
mands. Is it possible that young ac-
tors, or those without dignity, conse-
quence, or, as is often the case, pro-
F 4

72

foundly ignorant, can support such cha-
racters ?

These characters, often too much
neglected by authors, demand actors
whose talents are cultivated, and whose
judgments are matured, otherwise
they excite the laughter of the au-
dience by their manner of reciting the
verses of those poets, whose style is
peculiar or obsolete. To give verse
its due effect, requires a voice suscep-
tible of every intonation, and a coun-
tenance of the most expressive nature :
there should, therefore, be a scrupulous
attention paid to those who are destined
to perform the particular characters I am
speaking of. Ignorance and folly should
be equally banished from the theatre.

73

I remember, at one time, when I
was extremely ill, and was engaged to
perform Ariane, I was apprehensive
the fatigue of the character would be
too much for me to support, — I there-
fore bad a chair placed upon the stage,
in case I should find it necessary. In
effect, my strength failed me in the
middle of the fifth act, while I was
expressing my despair at the flight of
Phedre and Theseus. I fell backwards
in the chair, almost in a state of insen-
sibility. The judgment and sagacity
of mademoiselle Brilland, who per-
formed my confidante, suggested to her
mind how to fill up the scene by a
stage artifice of the most interesting
nature. She fell at my feet, took hold

74

of one of my hands, which she bathed
with tears ; her words, scarce articu-
late, were interrupted by sighs, and
she thus gave me time to recover my-
self. Her looks, her motions, pene-
trated my very soul ; I fell in her arms ;
and the public, deeply affected, re-
warded her presence of mind by the
loudest applause.

A common rate actress would have
thrown the wiiole stage into confusion,
and the piece would not have 6een
finished.

■ DIVISION OF WOMEN'S CHARACTERS.

All female characters in tragedy re-
quire, without exception, actresses of

75

a noble and dignified deportment. They
consist of queens, princesses, or ladies
of the highest rank. — I shall divide
them into four classes.

Such as represent mothers, — -such as
represent vehement and impassioned
characters, — such as represent tender
characters, — and such as represent con-
fidantes.

It is rare that the same actress possesses
powder and talent sufficient to personate
all these different characters : besides,
we sometimes find three of them united
in the same piece. It is therefore in-
dispensable that there should be three
actresses equally eminent in each of
them.

76

MOTHERS
I would recommend that those who
perform the characters of mothers, who
have children grown up, such as Cleo-
patre, Agrippine, or Semiramis, should
not be too young.

It appears impossible that women
under twenty years of age should be
actuated by any other sentiments than
those of the duties of their sex, the
impressions of nature, and the emotions
of love.

The study of the human heart, and
the different passions connected with it,
demand a mature reason, a judgment
formed upon experience, reflection, and
example.

77
These can only be acquired by time ;
but the public require no more from
young beginners, than that they should
justify hopes of their future celebrity.
Persons who have arrived at years of
experience would scarce be induced to
offer themselves candidates for public
favour on the stage. Prejudice and des-
potism render the situation of an actor
almost insupportable. It is youth and
inexperience alone that justifies such a
choice. But still I would have no ac-
tress personate the character of a mother
before five and twenty. It would be
better to defer it till their beauty was
rather on the decline. It is necessary
also they should be above the middle
size. Women of low stature have sel-
dom a dignified appcsrance. Those

78
who are, too tall are generally deficient
in grace; besides, the customs of the
theatre do not allow of too great a con-
trast in the figures of male and female
characters,

VEHEMENT AND IMPASSIONED CHARACTERS.

Those which I distinguish under this
title are the characters of Emilie, Elec-
tre, and Hermione. To give them their
due effect requires a grandeur and
haughtiness of deportment, an expres-
sive countenance, and a commanding
voice. Every motion should announce
courage and boldness ; but care must
be taken not to confound an air of bold-
ness with that of assurance and auda-
city. The former arises from an elevation
of the soul J the latter is generally the

eftect of Its degradation. The noble-
ness of mind, the purity of manners,
and the modesty of the sex, should never
be lost sight of. They should be al-
ways discernible, however disguised by
love, despair, or vengeance.

It is said that Nature has but one
voice. I admit it, provided due atten-
tion is paid to the rank, the manners,
and the situation of the character by
which our feelings are attempted to be
excited.

Every situation in life has Its different
modifications ; the tradesman possesses
not the consequence of the merchant
who employs him ; the merchant has
not the same degree of confidence when

80
addressing a nobleman; the nobleman
approaches those who command him
with an air of subordination ; and all,
without exception, bow respectfully
before their general superior.

The theatre is only a representation
of what passes in real life. The pu-
rity of language employed in tragedy,
the importance of the events, the dig-
nity of the personages, sufficiently prove
that nothing is left to the arbitrary
judgment of the actor ; that an air cf
vulgarity or triteness of expression can
never be allowed; that popular and li-
centious manners are never to be re-
sorted to as models ; and that it is im-
possible to unite, on the same canvas, a
Raphael and a Calot.

81
TENDER CHARACTERS.
Tender characters require a coun-
tenance characteristic of mildness, a
soft and expressive tone of voice, a*
great degree of sensibility, a timid and
delicate demeanour, a modesty of man-
ners, a dignified deportment, and an
elegant figure; but not tall, at least not
above the middle size. Women vv^hose
figures are small and delicate appear
younger on the stage than others : and
for these characters, those w^ho possess
the appearance of youth are more likely
to move and excite our interest.

The principal part of these charac-
ters represent young girls without ex-
perience, timid and fearful of avowing
that love they feel themselves, or have

VOL. I. G

82
inspired in others. I advise the actress
who performs auch characters never to
lose sight of that air of purity and can-
dour v^^hich her age and situation re-
quire. In describing the tender im-
pressions of love, she must carefully
avoid whatever may give rise to ideas
of voluptuousness. The voice, the
manners, or the looks of a coquette, or
woman of intrigue, can never be re-
conciled with innocence. Tragedy
ought to be tlie school of pure man-
ners, as it is of great actions.

CONFIDANTES.

I recommend for the character of a
confidante, a woman of an age calcu-
lated to inspire confidence, of a coun-
tenance expressive of wisdom and ex-
perience, a person attentive to the scene

83

that IS going forward, and apparently
interested in it. She should have no
pretensions to obtrude herself in a con-
spicuous point of view, except on such
an occasion as I have just before cited.

DRESS.

It is my advice to actresses in ge-
neral, to pay the most scrupulous at-
tention to dress. Dress adds consi-
derably to the illusion of the spec-
tators; and, when it is appropriate, it
gives a degree of confidence to the
actor. — ^That it should be exactly so
is scarce practicable : -*- to adopt the
dress of past ages, in every respect,
would be indecent and ridiculous. The
dresses of antiquity display too much
of the figure : they are properly appli-
G 2

84

cable only to statues and paintings 5;
but in supplying this defect, we ought
to preserve^ in some measure, the style
of them, and show our desire to imi-
tate, as far as possible, the luxury or
simplicit}' of the times we are describ-
ing. Fillets, fiowers, pearls, veils, and
stones of diiFerent colours^ were the
only ornaments with which women
were acquainted before the establish-
ment of the commerce of the Indies,,
and the conquest of the New World.

I particularly advise tragic actresses
to avoid the fashions of the day. The
head-dress worn by the French at the
moment I am writing, the extravagant
mode of wearing the hair, imparts an
appearance of disproportion to the h'^

85

gure, spoils the countenance, conceals
the motions of the neck, and presents
an air of stiffhess and formality incon-
sistent with that ease and freedom re-
quired upon the 5tage. The best and only
mode proper to be followed, is to adopt,
^s near as you, can, that of the .costume of
the character you are performing.

An actress, in arranging her di-ess,
should particularly attend to the situa-
tion of the person she represents.
Age, austerity, and grief, ill accord
with the decorations of youth, gaiety,
and happiness. Hermione adorned with
flowerets would appear ridiculous : the
violence of her character, and the sor-
row that consumes her, reject the idea
pf her devoting much time to the toir<
G 3'

86

lette. She may have a magnificent
habit ; but it ought to have an appear-
ance of negligence, and show that her
mind is not occupied about dress. The
first appearance of an actresa ought to
prepare the public for the character she
is about to pourtray.

ON THE DANGER OF TRADITIONS.
Ignorance and fancy produce so many
contradictions on the stage, that it is
impossible I should be able to refer
to all of them : but there is one which
I cannot pass over in silence, — it is that
of seeing Cornelie appear clad in black.

The sailing of the ship, in which she
escaped but a few moments before the
assassination of her spouse, and her ar-*

87
Tival at Alexandria, could not possibly
have allowed her sufficient time to pro-
vide herself with widaw's weeds; and,
most assuredly, the Roman ladies had
not the precaution to carry them among
the rest of their wardrobe. The ce-
lebrated Lecouvreur, when he painted
Cornelie in such a dress, proved that
he took the idea from the theatre.
Such an authority as he is ouglit to be
certainly paid some deference to ; but,
notwithstanding the great reputation he
has acquired, I dare flatter myself that,
when he committed this striking error,
he must have been actuated by some rea^
son which I am ignorant of, and that he
was sensible of the impropriety of it.— •
I have seen Electre played in a rose- co-
loured dress, elegantly set off with black

0 4

83

and white. I have, therefore, concluded,
that tradition is not a proper criterion to
follow; and that, before we adopt it, we
ought strictly to examine into its pro-
priety.

UPON THE USE OF WHITE PAINT.
The use of white paint is now almost
general upon the stage. This borrowed
charm, of which no one is the dupe,
and which all agree in condemning,
spoils and discolours the complexion,
weakens and dims the eye-sight, absorbs
the whole countenance, conceals the
expressive motion of the muscles, and
produces a kind of contradiction be-
tween what we hear and what we see.

I had rather we should have recourse
to the custom of using masks, like those

89

of the ancients. There would be at
least this advantage, that the time thrown
away in painting the face might be em-
ployed in improving the delivery.

Is it possible that an actress, whose
countenance is enamelled with paint,
and, consequently, incapable of any mo-
tion, can give expression to the passions
of rage, terror, despair, love, or anger ?

Every motion of the soul is expressed
through the medium of the countenance:
the extension. of the muscles, the swel-
ling of the veins, the blush upon the
face, all evince those inward emotions,
without which great talents cannot dis-
play themselves. There is no character
in which the expression of the counte-

90

nance is not of the utmost importance.
To feel a character, and to show by the
motion of the countenance that the soul
is agitated by what it feels, is a talent
of equal consequence in an actress with
any she can possess.

It is by the countenance alone you can
distinguish between irony and jest.

A voice, more or less raised or de-
pressed, or more or less tremulous, is
insufficient to express such or such a
sentiment of terror, or such or such a
sentiment of fear. The countenance
alone is enabled to mark its degrees.

As it is my own plan of study which
I am endeavouring to inculcate, I think

9t
it necessary in this place to state what
happened to myself in the character of
Monimie.

In studying this character, I found, in
the fourth act,

Les dieux qui m' inspiraient, et qui j'ai mal suivis,
M'ont fait taire trots fois par de fecrets avis.

That is.

The gods ivho inspired me, hut ivhose admonitions I
neglected.) thrice secretly warned me to he silent.

In the preceding act, however, where
Mithridate makes her acknowledge her
secret, I could only discover two m-
stances in which she hesitated to be-
tray it.

I consulted all the editions of Racine —
they all had it trois foh — the actresses,

who performed the character, all said
trohfois ; — from every inquiry I could
make, I assured myself that mademoir
selle Lecouvreur said trols. Although
deux would not have been so harmoni-
ous, yet the measure of the verse would
still have been perfect. » I, however,
presumed that Racine had his reasons for
preferring the one to the other. I could
discover po tradition to direct me ; it
did not become me to alter the text of
so great a man; and I could not submit
to say what appeared to me to have been
an error. I therefore endeavoured, by
the expression of my countenance, to
supply the want of the third hesitation j
and when Mithridate says.

• Servez avec son frere,

Et vendez aux Romains le sang de votre pere,

93

1 advanced, and, by the motion of my
features, appeared as if I was just going

to tell what I knew At that instant

I seemed to be overcome by an impres-
sion of terror, which prevented my giv-
ing utterance to my thoughts.

The public, who had never seen any
one attempt this before, gave me full
credit for it; and, by their applause,
sanctioned its propriety.

But if my countenance had been en-
amelled with white paint, I could not
have sufficiently commanded my fea-
tures,— I should have lost the pleasure
of being applauded, and the glory of
having discovered the meaning of Ra-
cine.

94

1 am not against giving every assistance
to Nature: I have often myself bor-
rowed assistance. Generally labouring
under an ill state of health, yet, unre-
mitting in my labours, the paleness of
death was often upon my countenance ^
I had remarked in others, that nothing
was so injurious to the expression of
the features as having pale lips or pale
ears. ' A little art gave them the ap-
pearance of florid health : I darkened
the colour of my eyebrows, as the cha-
racter I was to perform required ; I
did the same thing to my hair, with
different coloured powders ; but far
from concealing, in thedeast degree,
those features which give animation
and expression to the whole counte-
nance.— I have ever made the ana-

r

tomy of the head my particular study,
in order that I might thereby be ena^
bled to dispose it in positions most
calculated to display it to advantage*.

A white skin is doubtless agreeable :
it communicates a charm to the whole
figure ; it imparts an air of greater
sprightliness and animation — the blue
veins it discovers are always considered
as beauties.

But that whiteness which is acquired
by paint covers the countenance with
a thick enamel, which conceals and de-
stroys every feature. The pores are

* Those who have an inclination for such a stu-
dy would do well to read the description of the hu-
man figure, in BufFon's Natural History, vol, iv,
p. 278. oft. edition.

filled with the pernicious ingredient
of which the paint is composed ', and
the fear the person who wears it is
constantly under, of deranging it by
too much action, compels her to keep
her face always in one posture : — be-
sides, I know no kind of coquetry-
more troublesome, humiliating, or use*
less. Whoever has recourse to it is
always afraid of being surprised before
her face is made up : she caonot refer
to herself any compliment that may be
paid her : and I again repeat, that it is
a custom of which no one is the dupd.

97

TALENTS'

Kecessary to be acquired for the stage.

DANCING AND DRAWING.

I N order to be able to tread the stage
with ease and grace, to give facility to
the motions of the body, dignity to the
whole appearance, and to prevent the
acquirement of habits repugnant to na-
ture, it is indispensably necessary that
those who dedicate themselves to a the-
atrical profession should pay the utmost
attention to the art of dancinp- : they
must carefully avoid contracting the
air and manners of a dancing-master ;
but, in every other respect, a know-
ledge of the art is requisite.

VOL. I. II

5*

It were to be wished that every actor
should be more or less initiated in the
art of drawing: they would thereby
become more susceptible of the good
effect of preserving proper distances ;.
they would more easily discover the
point of perspective, which is so im-
portant on the stage, both with respect
to their figure and their dress. In pan-
tomimic representations,, or pieces cal*
Gulated for show, the performers who
are to set off the pjincipal personages
are placed more advantageously, and
are better adapted to fill up the picture-
with its proper shade or effect.— -Such,
actors as are unacquainted with this
art, I advise to study the works of the
most eminent painters and sculptors.

G9

MUSIC.
Without pretending to acquire a
fundamental knowledge of the science
of music, it is, nevertheless, necessary
for an actor to study its elements, in
order to be enabled to form a proper
judgment as to the extent of his voice,
to render every intonation easy and fa-
miliar, to avoid discordance, to regu-
late his sounds, to preserve and vary
them at pleasure, and to impart to every
accent, w^hether vehement or plaintive,
that degree of modulation which is ne-
cessary.

Without this study, it is almost im-
possible to play Corneille to advantage.
— He is either so sublime, or so fami-
liar, that, unless the actor is perfectly

H 2

100

sure of his intonations, he runs the risk
of appearing bombastical or trivial.

LANGUAGE, GEOGRAPHY, and BELLES
LETTRES.

The study of language is of more
importance to an actor than any other.
The theatre ought to be the school for
foreigners, and of that part of the pub-
lic who have neither time, nor the
means of procuring proper masters, to
learn the language of the country iu
its most perfect purity.

It is almost incredible, that persons
who are selected to represent the chef
d'ceuvres of the most eminent writers
of the nation should be unacquainted
with thediiference between a long and

101

a short syllable, or the distinction be-
tween the singular number and the
plural ; that they should confound the
genders of nouns ; that they should
scarce know the masculine from the
feminine ; and that provincial accents
should destroy the grandeur and purity
of our language. Such, however, is
the case with reference to the greater
part of our actors. He who is unac-
quainted with the extent and value of
words can never comprehend the mean-
ing of things : if he should stumble
upon it, it is only by chance; and I am
at a loss to conceive how the public
can tolerate those who appear before
them with such defects, or who betray
such unpardonable ignorance.
H 3

102

It is impossible to read history, with
any advantage or improvement, with-
out a knowledge of geography. The
right of judging of the merits of such
authors as write for the theatre im-
poses upon an actor the necessity of
acquiring every species of knowledge
which may enable him to judge with
accuracy, and to determine, by a single
perusal, the merits of a work which
the author has been a year composing.
An intimate acquaintance with stage-
effect and the rules of the theatre, an
accurate ear, a good taste, a sound,
discriminating, and attentive judgment,
are not all that is required : it is ne-
cessary to be acquainted with mytho-
logy, history, geography, and language ;
he must be acquainted with every de-

-scTiption of poetry, and the writings
<of every dramatic author, ancient and
modern- He will then be enabled to
judge whether an author has made
the most of his subject; he will per-
ceive how much has been drawn
from the times, places, and charac-
ters of which he has written ; in
short, whether the author has shown
a creative fancy, is a servile imitator,
or a plagiarist. The approbation of
the critic is no ways flattering, nor
Jiis censure any disgrace, unless he is
known to possess those qualities ne-
cessary to enable him to form his judg-
ment with accuracy. It is not enough
to approve or reject a work ; the man
who does either, ought to show him-
self capable of judging.— About two
H -1

104

years before my retirement from the
theatre, there was a league among cer-
tain authors to pay no attention what-
ever to the judgment of actors. This
attempt to invaUdate the opinions of a
class of men, without whom the au-
thors could be of no use, was as un-
just as the pretence for it was false and
groundless.

Unless a superior power destroys the
right of the actors, it is impossible that
any of them should ever consent to such
an injustice and degradation. Corneille,
Voltaire, and Racine, demanded no other
tribunal : their works, however, un-
like those of the present day, did not
require the illusions of the theatre, or
the talents of the actors. It has been

lOJ

said by authors, that the actors robbed
them of the reward due to their exer-
tions : — the trifling recompence they re-
ceived was, they said, a proof of it. I
can state, in reply to this observation,
without the least fear of contradiction,
that, with respect to the two and twenty
years I have been upon the theatre, it is
unfounded in truth.

The accounts prove, by the receipts and
payments, that not only have the actors
refrained from appropriating to them-
selves vv^hat was due to authors; but that,
on the contrary, where they have them-
selves been unsuccessful, they have di-
minished their own salaries to augment
the author's gains, and have not, unfre-
qucntly; bestowed their gratuitous assist-

ancc in favour of several of them. The
same accounts prove that Cinne, Iphige-
nie, and Mahomet, never produced their
authors, so much as Venice Preserved,
Zelmire, the Earl of Warw^ick,. the
Widow^ of Malabar, or even Varro. —
It is unfortunately the case, in every
state, that, where ignorance is most to
be found, there also is the greatest por-
tion of self-conceit.

I shall not intersperse, with the crude
remarks I have attempted upon the dra-
matic art, any serious discussion relative
to the Gallic church, or the arbitrary
power under which more than ten thou-
sand French actors and actresses at pre-
sent labour. I undertook the profession
at an age when one scarce is acquainted

107
with oneself. I have fulfilled the task
allotted to me as well as I was able,
without ever blushing at a profession
which certainly has nothing in it de-
grading. The moment of my liberty
appeared the sweetest I ever enjoyed in
the course of my life. Restored to my
rights as a citizen, I am content to de-
plore the lot of those who are still slaves.
I keep myself quiet; and, while I turn
the pages of Epictetus, console myself
for all the misfortunes of nature and
fate. But I cannot conceive how au-
thors, who are obliged to court the fa-
vours of actors, who live among them,
share their labours and their salaries,
should join the popular cry, in order
to insult those by whom they cxi^t.

108
whom they know, and whom they
ought to esteem.

Such a mode of conduct is the more
extraordinary and reprehensible, as we
daily perceive the light of reason sur-
mounting prejudice. The profession of
an actor is not attended with so many
obstacles as it formerly was.

Moliere, to whom all Europe raised
altars, w^as not deemed worthy to be-
long to the academy ; yet, in our time,
we read in its annals the simple name
of Dubelley. The equality in point of
situation, and the incalculable difference
with respect to the merits of these two
nien, are the strongest proofs that can

be adduced of the revolution which has*
taken place in the public mind.

I admit that those authors who write
for the theatre have often good reason
to be dissatisfied with their judges. It is
no less unjust to refuse actors of every
description the right of judging, than
it is to admit of their judgment indis-
criminately. There are many whose
abilities reach no higher than just to say,
" I have feen the fun,'' without having
the least idea of the system by which
that glorious luminary is guided.

Without regard to ancient custom,
the privilege of sex or situation, or the
protection of power, which allow the
most ignorant to have a voice as pre.-

110

ponderating a^ the most enlightened, I
would advise that a council of ten or
twelve actors should be appointed,
whose taste, judgment, and experience,
should be universally known and ad-
mitted,— to whom I would have the
power devolve of determining the me-
rits or demerits of every theatrical work.
The production of every author should
be read in their presence; and they
should have the power of giving their
advice, making such corrections as they
might think proper, or give their rea-
sons for rejecting it altogether.

Anonymous criticisms, with regard to
theatrical works, ought to be banished
from the public eye. — He who has any
£iir^ just, and candid remarks to make>

Ill

ought to make them openly. What-
ever may be an author's vanity, he ought
not to expect that the public should sa-
crifice its judgment and opinion to please
or ^tter it. It is not the author who
is to judge vi^hether his work deserves
to interest the public, and increase the
funds of the theatre ; yet no author
has any reason to complain of severity.
The best part of the pieces which have
been, brought out within these fifteen:
years past sufficiently prove the scarcit}^
of good authors, and the extreme indul-
gence of the public.

The simple and unqualified rejection
or acceptation of an author's production
leave no room for the exercise of his
vanity : the former disgusts his feelings,.

112!

and he is seldom sensible of the latter.
When the public at large are to pro-
nounce, the possibility of discussion is
precluded ; but, in the limited council
I have recommended, discussion will be
an indispensable duty. By stating their
reasons, they will impart hope and con-
solation to the author whose work they
shall reject, and double the pleasure of
him whose work they shall approve.

Such a theatrical council cannot be
better described than by these verses of
madame Pernelle :

On n'y rcspecte rien ; chacun y parle haut,
Et e'e«t justement la oour du roi Petaut.

lis

GENERAL REFLECTIONS.

W iTH a very few exceptions, I have
performed every tragedy which has been
produced during the period I have been
upon the stage.

As far as my abilities would allow, I
have endeavoured to make myself per-
fectly acquainted with every character.
I flatter myself I have acquired a per-
fect knowledge of the nature and spirit
of them, and have enabled myself to
pourtray them with their due effect. I
may certainly be allowed to believe, after
the encouragement I have experienced

VOL. I. I

from the public, that it will not dissap-
prove of any actress who adopts the
same line of study I have done, or pur-
sues the instructions I lay down for her
improvement. I cannot, however, pre-
scribe rules for every particular character.
The weakness which age has brought
upon mc, and the long continuation of
my infirmities, do not allow me the
means or leisure to attempt so arduous
an undertaking. Besides, we often feel
what we cannot express. An elevated
and noble soul is inspired by sentiments
of grandeur, refinement, delicacy, and
sensibility, which are not to be de-
scribed by language ; they can only be
delineated by a look, a gesture, the mo-
dulation of the countenance : these in-
expressible movements of the soul may

115

be painted to the imagination, but can-
OOt be expressed by words. I am,
therefore, fearful of entering into mi-
nute details, which would be fatiguing
to the reader, useless to those who pos-
sess genius, and dangerous to those with-
out it. General observations, with a few
particular remarks upon those charactecs
which require peculiar study, shall be
the only objects o£ my reflections.

I have already mentioned the four
gifts of nature which are indispensable
in an actor or actress — enunciatioiv
strength, memory, and exterior or fi--
gure. From what I have said, the ne-
cessity of a regular system of study, aa
accurate judgment, and, if possible, a
good natural genius, must be evident.—
I 2

116

The two former are adequate to the
acquirement of the beaten track of
characters ; thelatter is requisite to
enable the actor to undertake new
ones.

' I have spoken of the talents of
^dancing and music j have stated that it
is necessary to add to them a knowledge
of history, mythology, belles lettres,
language, and geography : but without
pretending that those who have not
^one through a regular course of study
'should be acquainted with all I have
enumerated, — alas ! I but too well am
convinced of the impossibility of it, —
I wi41 only remark what it is absolutely
necessary to become, and what particu-
lar studies cannot be dispensed with.

H7

j^j^JA^ithout a guide, or the advice of any.
one to point out to me how to direct
my studies to advantage, I have often
lavished my time and constitution - in
useless and unprofitable pursuits. It
should, however, never be forgotten,
that whoever wishes to attain celebrity
in the dramatic art has not a single day to
lose. I have numbered all mine by my
labours, from twelve years of age to forty-
two j and I am sensible, that even when
I quitted the theatre, I had a multitude
.of faults to correct. What study does
it not require, in order to be able to
distinguish the difference between
irony and disdain, between disdain and
contempt, between warmth and pas-
sion, between impatience and rage, be-
tween, timidity and fear, and between
I 3

IIS

flif ^«iif terror? What Impei-eeptfble
diades 6ff expression are to be resorted
t6, to distin^ish between love, nature,
dnd humanity? What efforts are re-
(Juisite to paint the various gradations
of rage, of terror, and of pity ? What
justness of feeling and expression of
voice arc necessary to reason in a man-
gier at once simple and natural, without
being cold and familiar ? — This last is
the most difficult of all : — to be natu-
ral, jn^, and noble, is the greatest pos^
gible proof of talent. My studies were
calculated to enable me to arrive at
the greatest possible perfection of the
dramatic art 5 but the obstacles I have
met with in my Way, and the injustice
which I experienced, forced me to
abandon my career. I have only been

119
able to gather a few flowers ', but thfe
palm remains for whoever is bold
enough to seize it. The only consola^-
tion that remains to me is, that I am
enabled to point out the path by which
it may be acquired.

The tragic actor should habituate
himself off the stage to the tone and
manner required at the theatre. No-
thing is of so much importance as
habit.

If I were to assume the manners of
a Bourgeoise, during twenty hours of
the day, I should still appear the same
even when performing Agrippine, not-
withstanding all my efforts to the con-
trary. The tones and gestures of low
i4

120
life would continually escape me. My
-soul, bowed down by habits of submis-
sion and subordination, would be un-
equal to the expression of those senti-
.ments of grandeur which distinguish
the characters I represent. — Without
losing sight of the station 1 fill in pri-
vate life, I have ever made it my duty
Xo maintain a degree of dignity and
consequence consistent with the cha-
racters I filled in public. 1 am aware
that this conduct on my part has ex-
posed me to ridicule among my col-
leagues of the theatre, and among those
who are too apt to form opinions with-
out consideration. They allege that I
have constantly the air of the Queen of
Carthage. They think they distress
me by such an observation : on the con-

121

trary, they do me' the highest honour;
they prove that I have succeeded in my
endeavours. I have acquired thereby a
greater degree of confidence ; and am
sensible that the labour which I have
imposed upon myself, in public and in
private, has enabled me to dispense
with that continual agitation of mind
• by which I was, formerly, so extremely
harrassed on the stage.

When any character is made the sub-
ject of criticism, and the person who cri-
ticises it, states the reasons upon which
his judgment is founded, he is entitled
to our acknowledgments and attention.
Happy the actress who has merit suffi-
cient to deserve such notice, and who
possesses not the foolish pride and va-

nity to neglect it ! — But it may be said,
an actor is no-ways amenable to the
public, except during the course of the
representation; and, when it is over,
that he then becomes himself part of
the public.

Shall those who pursue a profession
which requires education, a knowledge
of the world, profound acquirements,
elevation of soul, genius, and every
gift of nature, be the objects of conti-
nual humiliation ? Shall they in no re-
spect be on an equality with the rest of
the public? Shall they be compelled
to make an humble sacrifice of supe-
riority to every one ?— The demand is
unreasonable.

123

The disgrace which is attefnpted to

be attached to the profession of the

st^gc i$ a reflection upon the whole
nation that suffers it.

What ! shall the monarch who com-
mands me to appear before him, the
public who come to hear and applaud
me, the author who submits his pro-
duction to me, all have their rights and
privileges, and yet I possess none?— -I
am obedient to the authority which is
placed above me ; I add new beauties
to the characters entrusted to me ; I en-
able the public to pass their hours
agreeably; and I anl rewarded by its
contempt. — It is difficult to find a name
f©r such inconsistency.

124

Are theatrical representations dan-
gerous in their tendency ? — If they are,
suppress them — suffer them not to be
so generally resorted to. If they are
advantageous, let those who are em-
ployed in them enjoy that esteem which
their talents and their conduct merit.

Wherein does the dishonour of such
a profession consist ? — The declaration
of Lewis XIII. proves that a gentle-
man may assume it without degrada-
tion. The pieces we represent are sub-
ject to previous examination -, we re-
ceive them from the hands of the per-
son appointed to inspect them, and he
is responsible for them. The statutes
relating to the profession of the stage,

125

whicK have been promulgated by bur
Icings, and confirmed by parliament,
may be held out as a terror to us. They
annul the parental authority, they elude
the rights of matrimony, and declare
children out of their minority at an
age when restraint is most necessary.
Revoke them! — they are no less repug-
nant to nature than to custom and rea-
son ; and he who would resort to them
would be unworthy of consideration or
pity. I have never heard of, or knew,
any one, who appealed to such disgrace-
ful statutes.

It is pretended that the manners are
more dissolute on the stage than else-
where It may be true that the stage

allows of too great a freedom of man-

19,6

ners ; but it is true also, that slander
has exaggerated the evil.-^ Whatever
-may be the manners of the stage, let
those who complain of them look to
themselves, examine around them, and
observe what is passing among their
neighbours, and in their own houses ;
and, by observing the unrestrained dis-
orders in their own families, learn to
speak with less severity of others. — First
destroy the barriers which deny actors
to approach the altars — compel them
not to a life of celibacy — suffer them
to form alliances, without the risk
of the object of their choice being dis-
inherited ; and then, if they give room
for scandal, punish them, despise them:
— I give my consent to it.

127

It is said that the money paid at the
door for admittance is dishonourable
to those who receive it. People say,
" Ibefe aBors are paid for what they
** do — / pay them — 1 am entitled to be
** entertained for my money »" Such are-
the phrases which have often excited
my pity at the insolent brutes who ut-
tered'them. But is there a person so
ignorant as not to know that no one
wiU do any thing without being paid ?
Is there a profession or employment
without a salary, fees, or profit? — I can-
not support myself, obtain cloaths for
my person, or a house to reside in,
without giving my money in exchange.
If I want any thing, I must pay for
it : if I have a law-suit, I must fee
the advocate and attorney : if I want

I2S

a physician, I must pay him. I have
taken children to be baptised, and
have paid the minister for performing
the ceremony. I have lost my nearest
relations, and have paid for the spi-
ritual assistance they received, as well
as for their interment. If I wish to
hear mass, I pay ten, fifteen, or twenty
sous, according to the church I go to.
j[n short, every one knows the answer
which Rousseau made to an Ambas-
sador, who observed to him, that,
** What displeased him, 'with regard to
** bocks, was, that they were compofed
" for the sake of maknig money b; them.'*
• — " Why,"' he replied, " does your
" Excellency deal in cyphers ?

Money is the idol of all who breathe ;

129

— no one can deny this truth. Danger,
falsehood, baseness, prostitution, guilt,
all are resorted to in order to obtain it -,
and yet lam blamed for receiving, by
a voluntary retribution, an equivalent
for my expenses, and a fair remunera-
tion for those labours, which are no
less innocent than they are painful. —
What is the consequence of such in-
justice? To intimidate persons of ta-
lent, and deprive the stage of their
assistance.

A free agent, arrived at the age of
reflection, would justly dread the al-
m^ t insupportable fatigue of such a
piofsssion, the insufficiency of the sa-
lary, the continual dependence on the

VOL. I, K

ISO

arbitrary p'ower of superiors, and th&
disgrace of national prejudice: but when
deceived by youth and inexperience,
any one has been induced to make
choice of it, I know, by myself, to
what a degree that disgust, which it
may afterwards inspire, is detrimental
to study, and to what a state of despair
it has often reduced me. I have reck-
oned with horror the ten last years of
my slavery : and, to the latest hour of
my life, I fhall bless even the injustice,
the madness, and folly of that public,
which has at length furnished me with
the means of retiring.

The times of ignorance and hypo-
crisy are passed r— If talents are re-

131
quired on the stage, they must ht ob-
tained by recompensing them with a
liberal remuneration.

An engagement at the theatre should
not be the price of seduction or de-
bauchery. Mere children, protected by
persons in power, should not be ad-
mitted ; the public alone ought to be
the judge of talents, and the performers
ought to be the judges of the pieces to
be represented. Every thing would
then go right ; and, without it, all must
be destroyed. But whether the situa-
tion of actors is ameliorated, or whe-
ther it is left as it is, still, if they de-
sire to arrive at the perfection of their
talent, they must attend to the system
of study I have prescribed. Those

K 2

132

who deem it absurd in an actor to be
necessarily and constantly occupied with
those studies which the dignity and
majesty of tragedy require, will be
sure to appear,, in common life, with
an air. of submiffion and inferiority.

It is by departing from the principles
1 have laid down, that mademoiselle;.
Dusmenil lost herself in the public esti-
mation. The cause of the degrada-
tion of her talent was never generally
known : I shall, therefore, I trust, be
pardoned for describing the conversa-
tion I have had with that actress re-
specting the remarkable change in her
manners, and for stating my own senti-
ments upon the subject.

t33

PORTRAIT

or
MADEMOISELLE DUMESNIL.

Mademoiselle Dumesnil was neither
handsome, nor possessed of a good fi-
gure. Her physiognomy, her size, her
appearance altogether, though without
any natural defect, seemed character-
istic of the manner of a Bourgeoise,
without grace or elegance, and often on
a level with those of the very lowest
classes of the people. However, her neck
was finely formed, and her eyes were
expressive and commanding ; and, when
she pleased, were capable of inspiring
sentiments of awe and respect.

Her voice, deficient in flexibility, was
incapable of aflfecting the feelings ; but

134.

it was strong, sonorous, and, in every
respect, adequate to the most violent
bursts of passion.

Her pronunciation was pure : she
had no impediment as to the volubiUty
of her utterance.

Her action W2is often too violent for
a w^oman ; it had neither ease nor deli-
cacy; but she was extremely sparing in
its use.

Distinguished for her style of playing
tender and pathetic characters, nothing
could be more gratifying than her per-
sonification of the distress and despair
of a mother. That expression of na-
ture, which she displayed in such a cha-

135

Tacter, rendered her acting as near the
sublime as can be conceived. The pas-
sions of love, ambition, or pride, vv^ere
but faintly represented by her ; but, as
she was young, jealous of fivalship, and
desirous of the reputation of a ii-rst-rate
actress, great hopes were entertained of
her emulation and future experience in
her profession. — Such was mademoi-
selle Dumesnil when I first appeared
upon the stage^

The system of study to which I had
devoted myself, from the first moment
of my appearance as an actress, by mak^
ing me sensible of my own defects in a
few years, taught me to discern those of
others. I perceived that the object of
jTiademoiselle Dumesnil was rather to
K 4

136

captivate a multitude, than please con-
noisseurs.' A ranting manner, singular
t^'ansitions, a mode of utterance ,mor$
suited to comedy than tragedy, and a"
vulgar action, superseded those grand
^nd impressive beauties of which she
had before given such eminent proofs.

The ignorant exclaimed Bravo! Na--
iurel — I, who admired great talents,
even in a rival, could not avoid regret-
ting the change I perceived ; and I took
the liberty of inquiring the cause.

" You was pursuing with such cer-
tainty the road of celebrity," said I,
" that I cannot conceive how you have
deviated from it. Sure of the esteem of
the ^public, as well as of your own ap-

137

probation, what can you propose to
yourself, by such excentricities ? Does
the laugh you now excite appear more
flattering to you than the admiration
you formerly. experienced?, does it be-
come you to confound Semiramis with
the wife of Sganarelle ? What can you
mean by those forced tones at the end
of every couplet ? To what object are
you sacrificing your understanding, your
reason, and your talents ? . — Whatever
may be the advantages you expect to
derive from your new system, I assure
you it afflicts me ; and my frankness,
upon the occasion, is a p^pof of it."

" I have listened to you," said she,
** and I return you my thanks -, your
anxiety on my account appears disinter-

138

csted, and I shall answer you without
reserve.

'** You are aiming at a degree of per-
fection, at which you will never arrive j
and which, if you should attain, no one
would be sensible of. The number of
persons, of real sound judgment, in a
mixed assembly (should there even be
any), may be about one or two^ the re-
mainder judge without examination, de-
pending upon the opinions of others, or
the reputation of the actress. Volubi-
lity, bursts of passion, and whatever is
singular and uncommon, strike them 5
they are hurried away, and applaud
with rapture j — let one person exclaim
Bravo! and the rest repeat it imme-
iliately.

139
'* Your deep and learned researches
escape the multitude ; the public are
unaffected by them ; and men of judg-
ment, whose passions are, in general,
repressed by age, wisdom, and expe-
rience, conceal their satisfaction with-
out daring to manifest it. An audience,
pn leaving the theatre, mixes with the
rest of the public, and imparts its en-
thusiasm.—Whence come you ? What
was the play ? Who were the per-
formers ? — Mesdemoiselles Dumesnil
and Clairon — the former was applauded
to the ikies, the latter appeared cold
and formal. — It is thus our reputa-
tions, as actresses, are formed : and,
depend upon it, if you continue the
same course you have hitherto pursued,

14^0

I shall be exalted to heaven, and you
will be left grovelling on earth."

** I am far," answered I, ** from
having attained the object I propose,
but I already begin to perceive it : — the
path is long and arduous, but I do not
venture a step without the aid of study
and reason. Who constantly searches
after truth, must sooner or later arrive
at it ; while those who pursue a daz-
zling illusion are sure to be misled.
The public is not so ignorant as you
would have it believed : you seem to
forget how often it forms an accurate
judgment upon the works submitted
to its decision. The finest thoughts,
and most delicate sentiments, imme-

141

dialely make an impression upon its
feelings : even the galleries, which one
would naturally suppose were composed
of that part of the public least difficult
to be pleased, will admit of no fault
in violation, either in point of histor}%
language, or the manners and consist-
ency of the personages of the drama.
The more I study these points, the
more sanguine are my hopes that my
studies will not be thrown away. Yoa
see that the public always attends ta
me, and often encourages me ; and if
you continue to have no other guide
dian folly, I flatter myself, that, when
we are both weighed together, the
balance will be the reverse of that
which you have predicted,"

142
From that moment I redoubled my
researches, and mademoiselle Dumes-»
nil pursued, unrestrained, the same line
of conduct she had adopted. This
actress, who might have been one of
the first of her time .... My pen falls
from my hand.

Without having recourse to any very
minute observation, it is easy to per-
ceive that each of the provinces that
compose France are materially differ-
ent from one another : though they
have all the same national interest, and
belong to the same empire, yet their
prejudices and peculiar characters seem
to make each of them a distinct
nation.

143

If we observe the strangers who are
to be met with in Paris, it is easy to
perceive, in each of them, a charac-
teristic feature, a national pecuHarity,
which distinguishes them. We may
thence form a judgment as to the va-
rious shades of difference among the
repubUcs which composed the whole
Grecian empire, and all of which were
jealous of each other But there are
only two in which the diiterence ha^
any relation to tragedy — these are A-
thens and Sparta.

As I am far from being inclined to
transcribe those authors who treat of
the subject, I shall content myself with
pointing out the oppositions which
chiefly characterised those two nation^,-

144

— a subject which is e^itremely important
to those who perform the female cha-
racters of tragedy.

Athens was the centre of the fine
arts — of taste, magnificence, learning,
eloquence, philosophy, and urbanity.

The young girls of distinguished fa-
milies never appeared in public, except
at festivals or religious ceremonies ; a
veil concealed their countenances -, their
nearest relations were the only men
who dared approach and coriverse with
them. — Such a system of education
naturally produced artless and timid
characters. An habit of circumspec-
tion and decency ought to be pain red
in their looks, tl^eir manners, the yi.dd--

145

ncss of their voice, the simplicity of
their expressions, the modesty of their
appearance, and in the native dignity of
their actions.

At Sparta, riches were useless — the
expenses were in common i the child-
ren belonged to the state j the repasts
were made in public, without distinc-
tion of rank, age, or sex ; luxury was
a crime ; and the utmost austerity of
manners prevailed*.

Young girls were habituated to vio-
lent exercises ; they entered the lists

* I know this mode of education commenced
^v'rh the laws of Lycurgus, but it is only at the pe-
riod I am speaking of that a distinct character can
be affixed to this part of Greece.
L

with the men, and contended with
them for the prize of activity/ Their
dress was calculated to display their
naked arms, legs> and even their thighs.

It must be evident such an educa-
tion as this rendered the women robust
and courageous, gave them a masculine
voice, a bold look, an haughty appear-
ance, and a confident assurance. Mo-
desty,— that interesting and invaluable
pledge of our sex, was equally esteemed
in the two republics ; but the mode of
manifesting it could not be the same.
I may be mistaken, but it certainly is
from these two sources that I have de-
rived the faculty of imparting to the
characters of Monime and Hermione
those distinguishing features which the

147

opposite nature of them necessarily de-
mand. • V---,

CHARACTER OF MONIME.
The part of Monime, from the be-
ginning to the end, is a prototype of
an Athenian girl, such as I have de-
scribed.

The actress, who, after the senti-
ments she expresses in the fourth act,
thinks herself at liberty to give way to
the least passion, either with respect to
her voice, her countenance, or her ac-
tion, certainly commits a most egre-
gious error.

To reject the man chosen by her fa-
L 2

•148

th*^i:,.iji|Sh:ii€r.bu8bahd, and-in his pre-
sence too, — to dare to tell him, ••'"•-

Ma main ijii mon amour,

Ne seront point le prix d'un si cruel detour :

to brave that deaths she expects to
receive J are pro:Ofs she is sensible of
having outstepped the limits prescribed
by modesty.

My first endeavour, in studying a part,
is to give it that distinguishing feature
which it requires, and to select some
passage which is most striking, and
places the character in the most pro-
minent point of view. My chief plea-
sure is to propose to myself the greatest
difficulties. — In the present character I
discover them in these verses :

Ug

Noh Seigneur vainemfnt vbus voulez m'etoniier ' i n
Je vous connaiSf je fais tout ce que je m'apprete, ^ -.
Et je vois quels malbeurs yaiTemhle fur ma tete,
M^ais le dessein est pris. Ricn ne peut m'ebranler
Jugez en puisqu' ainsi je vous ose parler :
Et-m'jemporte au dela de cette modeftie, ; if' V
Dent jusqu'a ce moment je n'etais pas-^prtie, &c. >.

The softness of my voice, and the
extreme modesty of my ' appearance,
formed a contrast of the most striking
nature with the emphatic manner in
which I pronounced the words I have
underUned, and the firmness depictured
on my countenance.

The resolution of a woman who is
acting under the impulse of passion
may be doubted j but I think also there
are very little expectations to be formed
of an actress, who, while she is ma
L 3

150

nifesting a determined resistance, has
no appearance of her feelings being in-
terested.

This is one of the most noble, yet
tender character?, on the stage j but, I
have too well experienced that it is one
of the most difficult.

Without exclamation, passion, the
power of voice to fill the whole the-
atre, a commanding manner, and a
countenance capable of variety of ex-
pression, it is impossible to divest this
character of that monotonous sameness
which it presents at the first blush:
by the aid of these, the actress derives
the highest advantages; but they should
be resorted to, and applied, with due

151

regard to the consistency of the cha-
racter.

It is only after fifteen years study, as
to the means of repressing my voice,
my action, and my countenance, that
I have been bold enough to assume a
character so difficult ; and I acknow-
ledge, that to pourtray, from scene to
scene, the grief and noble simplicity
which distinguish it, required all the
exertions of which I was capable, and
all the desire to excel by which I was
actuated. I, nevertheless, am far from
flattering myself that I have arrived at
that height of perfection in this cha-
racter which is attainable. I have not
played it often enough to correct my
faults.

L 4

152

May some other actress do better
than I have done ! But I invite all
those who undertake it, to weigh ma-
turely- , what they may be allowed to
attempt, and to act upon the impres-
sion, that Monime is absolutely out
of the ordinary routine of characters.

HERMIONE.

The character of Hermione is among
the number of those we must except
from the general rule.

All the difficulties it presents would
be removed, if this personage could be
supposed to be thirty years of age. It
would be then easy to describe, in all
their various turns and gradations, the
intrigue, the coquetry, the love, and the

153

vengeance, of which the character is
susceptible : but Hermione is only sup-
posed to be about twenty years old.
At this age an actress may give a pro-
mise of what she will one day become;
but I doubt whether it is possible for
her to have acquired sufficient powers
for such a character as this is.

The complicated, yet connected
ideas, the profound reflections, the
judgment which experience alone can
give, rarely correspond with the grace,
the timidity, the prejudices of educa-
tion, the inexperience, the air, and
the voice, of a girl of twenty years
of age.

This character is so peculiar in its

154

nature, that the actress is in danger of
either not attaining the perfection slie
airtis at, or of exceeding it. It is an
impassioned one, yet, in no respect,
tender ; it is furious, yet not wicked ;
it is noble and haughty, yet conde-
scends to employ the arts of seduction
and dissimulation with regard to Ores-
tes, and the violence of atrocity with
respect to Pyrrhus. Her pride and her
passion go hand in hand, except in the
passage, beginning

Mais Seigneur s'il le faut si le ciel en colere,

at the end of the soliloquy in the fifth
act, where she only gives vent to the
passion of love -, and, from the force of
her feelings, her eyes are suffused in

tears, -

155

v^Evdry resource which I was enabled
to derive from my own talents and my
reflections, in order to attain a perfect
idea of the beauties of the character,
and support its consistency, but the
more convinced me how arduous it
was. Happy should I be, could I
abridge the study of others, by giving
an exact, clear, and methodical ac-
count of my own ! — but I have already
said, that there are things which can-
not be written ? Without the aid of my
intonations and countenance, it is out
of my power to give an idea of the
shades by which the character and age
of Hermione are distinguished. It is
the province of genius, study, and
judgment, to profit by the weak and

166
■inadequate instructions I shall lay

iVJIn the parts where the actress is to
describe the love of Hermione, she
must carefully avoid that expression of
voice, and siraplicity of countenance,
which characterise tender souls ; and,
in pourtraying the impassioned scene,
she must equally avoid that confident
and assuming disdain of an experienced
woman ; such, for example, as Roxane
in Bajazet. In this last character, any
thing is allowable within due bounds.
The actress must seek within herself
whatever may exalt the heroine in a
woman of twenty, as well as irnpart
that de2:ree of mildness which even a

157
heroine of that age ought not to be
supposed divested of. .ni£idi. oi '.icjuiiii
tmLoiBz i^nid Horn srh 1j c; rf{.
That couplet in the fourth act>
which the public, men of letters, and
actors, call the couplet of irony , ought
not, in my. opinion, to have that appel-
lation. Irony demands a lightness of
mind, a tranquillity of soul, which, cer-
tainly, Hermione does not possess : her
pride and her love, equally wounded,
aiford only access to a sentiment of
rage, which the haughtiness of her cha-
racter In vain endeavours to repress,

A countenance, in which indignity
and nobleness of soul are equally painted;
a voice stifled in its first attempt at
Expression by rage and fury j and pas-

I5S

sidna which overcome hef , and she li
unable to retain, can only produce an
image of the most bitter sarcasm. The
horror which she herself experiences,
in reminding Pyrrhus of the cruelties
of which he has been guilty, can never
have the semblance of irony*

Hermione may infuse into her re-
proaches all that disdain and contempt
which is calculated to render them more
insulting; but she neither can, nor
ought, to descend to irony.

THEATRICAL SCHOOLS. '

Since my retreat from the theatre,
I have continually been hearing of the
necessity of having dramatic schools.—
The public think them practicable, and

likely to be advantageous ; and consi-»
derable sums have been raised for their
establishment. Nothing more clearly
proves that the managers of theatrical
representations have not the least idea
of vi^hat constitutes a great actress.
We learn to dance and sing as per-
fectly as possible, because these two
talents have regular rules and princi-
ples, which the most ignorant may un-
derstand and practise; but I know of
no rules, of no principles, which can
teach people every species of know-
ledge, every species of acquirement,
necessary to produce a great actress ;
I know of no rules which can teach us
to think and to feel : nature alone can
bestow those faculties, which experi-
ence, study, and opportunities, after-

166

yi&ffd^ de^elope. The only schodli^
fi-om which there is a reasonable and
probable expectation of advantage, are
the provincial theatres* The neces-
sity, of obtaining an engagement, the
emulation of excelling each other, the
dread of public disapprobation, the
practice which the memory obtains by
a continuance of labour/ the ease and
familiarity acquired by a daily appear-
ance upon the stage, the facility of
thereby acquiring a good ear, and of
enlarging one's ideas by seeing entire
pieces performed, and' by observing
their effect upon the public, will a-
chieve more in six months towards the
formation of a good actress, than two
years instruction in private, whatever
may be the talents and ability of the

161

master. I do not think I am actuated
by any very great degree of vanity in
comparing myself with the actresses of
the present day : they vrill, I trust,
pardon me for asserting, that I do not
believe them better instructed, superior
in ability, or more serviceable on the
stage than I was. I have spared no
pains in forming the talents of mesde-
moiselles Dubois and Rancourt. I ap-
peal to all who have seen them — my
charming scholars have evinced the
greatest abilities : but, alas ! notwith-
standing all my cares, added to what
they received from nature, I have never
been able to make any thing more of
them than mere imitators of myself.
The utmost hopes were formed from
their first appearance j but it was bc-

VOL. I. M

162

cause I was behind the curtain, and the
public was captivated by youth and
beauty. When I ceased my lessons, their
talents vanished.

It is nature alone that can form splen-
did characters in any walk of life. Ob-
serve the state of mankind with respect
to the arts, siences, and learned acquire-
ments ; and from the small number of
those who may be said to excel, you
will be able to determine how impos-
sible it is to command genius, or to im-
part it by instruction.

When a young actress discovers spi-
rit, an accurate judgment, sensibility,
force, a good voice, memory, and a
countenance happily formed for the

163

characters she is to represent, let her
not want the means .to improve them ;
provide her with such masters as may be
necessary to enable her to develope her
ideas j let her not languish in a state
which may repress the energy of her
mind, and retard her progress ; let her
not feel the necessity of resorting to vice
to obtain the situation she is emulous
of; recommend to her to listen with at-
tention to the advice which the public,
or others of the same profession with
herself, may give, as to her evincing too
much or too little warmth of feeling,
dignity of action, or grace of deport-
ment : let her second the efforts of her
friends to forward her improvement.
Such, according to my opinion, are the
only possible means by which an actress

M 2

164

can derive advantage from instructioft*
Is it to be supposed that Preville can
instruct others to perform Orosmane
and Semiramis ? that Mole can create
actors fit for all characters ? It is an ab-
surdity, at which they themselves must
laugh in/ their sleeves. To give them-
selves airs of importance, form a se-
raglio among the female candidates for
theatrical fame, amass money, and be-
come the terror of the whole stage, are
all these gentlemen pretend to, or can
perform.

I shall be answered, perhaps, that the
provincial theatres do not furnish good
subjects. I agree that comic opera and
the ballet absorb every thing else ; and
tiiat, at present, performers in that line

3 65

are the most essential part of the thea*
trical company. The talents required
for such situations are in the reach of
every one, whatever may be their edu-
cations ; and those who have acquired
jhem may, at any time, make sure of
gaining a Hvehhood j their dresses are
furnished by the managers, and their sa-
laries are, generally, liberal.

But the talents for the French thea-
tre demand an education of a peculiar
nature, and comprehending a variety of
branches ; they also imply the posses-
sion of many gifts of nature, and that
the actress should be of an age compe-
tent to understand, feel, and compare
what she studies -, the dresses are ex-
tremely expensive, and arc entirely pro-
M 3

166

vided by the actress herself; the salary
is small at first, and is never increased
to what m^y be termed a sufficiency,
until after a lapse qf several years, and
then, perhaps, not writhout that protec-
tion which, in many instances, is not to
be obtained without concessions, far
from being congenial to the feelings
and dispositions of every one.

Those who make the stage their pro-
fession are for the most part in necessi-
tous circumstances, and of indigent fa-
milies. It is a natural choice for per-
sons so situated, inasmuch as it is one
which, of all others, presents itself as
affording the fairest encouragement for
talent, and the surest prospect of imme-
diate emolument:.

167

It was not till after twenty years la-
bour that the pension of the king, a-
mounting to an hundred pistoles, was
granted me ; and I have seen mesdemoi-
selles AUard and Guimard, from the
first moment of their appearance at the
opera, receive pensions of 1200 livres
from the king. After twenty-two year^
services, the only recompense I have had,
to enable me to retire, is 1000 livres ;
and mademoiselle Heinel, at the end of
fourteen years, retired with a pension of
8000 francs. These ladies had great
talents I admit ; but, I dare trust, that
many of my comrades on the stage, as
well as myself, may justly pretend to
an equality with them. These examples
are a sufficient reason why there are more
good dancers than actresses.
M 4

16S

The theatres des Boulevards have also
greatly accelerated the degradation of
talents. The number of young girls
who are brought forward at this theatre,
and at the most tender years, are ruined
in their constitutions by exertions be-
yond their strength j and (if I may be-
lieve what is said), by a degree of
misconduct which exhausts them, and
brings on a premature old age. The
low and obscene pieces represented on
theatres of this kind necessarily banish
that noble dignity and decency of de-
{)ortment which is required at the

French theatre They merely repre-

sent*farces -, and the public require from
them a different mode of expression,
and a different style altogether, to what
they expect on the French stage : a

169
proof has lately been furnished which
is unanswerable. There is a performer
belonging to these bastard-kind of dra-
matic representations, of the nameof Vo-
lange,— I am not acquainted with him ;
but all Paris agree he possesses the per-
fection of talent at the vanVies amu~
s^Jites, He made his debut at the Ita->
lian theatre, where neither the works
which are represented, nor the talents
of the performers, bear the least com-
parison with those of the French the-
atre) yet, even there, this VoIangCy
who had been deemed so famous in his
line, was infinitely below the very
worst of the actors. These spectacles
not only fail in improving a performer,
but, on the contrary, they vitiate their
taste, corrupt their manners, and spoil

170

those who, perhaps, by the study of the
cbef d'cewvres of our theatre would have
arrived at celebrity.

The number of those destined to
appear in public is circumscribed, as in
every other situation of life ; and the fa^-
cility of procuring an engagement at
these minor theatres is a resource to
those who are deterred by the difficulty
of appearing upon a superior stage, and
whose talents deserve public support,
if only from a principal of national va-.
nity.

It does not become me to condemn
the taste of the public for these specta-
cles, or to blame the magistrates who
tolerate and are daily increasing them.

171
in violation of their own duty and the
rights of the regular theatres; but I
may be allowed to assert, that, as long
as they are suffered to remain, no dra-
matic school will ever be able to pro-
duce that proud and eminent display of
talent which was formerly so much
admired on the national stage. The
French theatre has but four performers
worthy of being mentioned*, the Ita-
lian has but two-f-. The opera may be
said to consist wholly of dancers. How
is it so great a falling off" has not sug-
gested the means of remedying the
evil ? How is it that Molnre, CorJieH'e,
Racine, and Voltaire^ have been aban-

* Pr^ville, Mole, Brisard, Larive.
f Clerval, anil Madame Diigarzon. Caillot has
lately retired,

172

doned for the family of Pointusf The
surest means of annihilating merit is to
protect mediocrity,

OROSMANE.

^ I have always been astonished that
Le Kain, who is ^o superior in the cha-
racter of Orosmane, should give cause
to expect something more from him in
the first couplet of the first act. — He
expresses himself well ; yet 1 do not
find any thing of that amenity and
tenderness of passion, so eloquently de-
pictured by Zaire. Orosmane, sur-
rounded by the different orders of the
slaves of his seraglio, and who, in his
interview with his mistress, has pre-
pared himself with a studied speech,
appears to me in the light of an im-

173

perious master rather than of that ten-
der lover one would be led to expect.
i have read this couplet over and over
again, with the most scrupulous atten-*
tion ; I have endeavoured to discover
in the verses that sentiment and pas-
sion which is supposed to be concealed
beneath the declamation of the first
thirty-two verses i but I have found
only an inconsistency and contradiction
between the language and the meaning
of the character. It is with a degree
of impatience I hear Orosmane talk-
ing of business, when, in my opinion,
he ought to have been speaking of
love. In the course of my researches
I discovered a kind of mute scene,
which it may not be uninteresting to
notice.

Orosmane enters surrounded with all
that grandeur and theatrical pageantry
which the character requires. I wished
to observe in him that departure from
his dignity which his youth and sensi-
biUty would have justified j that his eyes
should have sought those of Zaire, and
that he should have recognifed her by
the lovely suffusion of her countenance,
and the tumultous heavings of her bo-
som; that he should immediately have
observed the object of whom he is ena-
moured; that by the exertion of a no-
ble, yet tender sentiment, he should se-
lect her from among the train ; that he
should approach his mistress, seize her
hand, and, with looks of love and an
emotion of tenderness, he should press
it within his, and, at the same time, in-

175

Struct her as to the means of rendering
him completely happy. This scene,
performed with dignity and expression,
would give additional effect to the ideas
of the author, importance to the cha-
racters, and impart a degree of pleasure
and satisfaction to every spectator, whose
soul was inspired by tenderness and sen-
sibility.

STUDY OF PAULINE in POLIEUCTE.

Pauline is one of those characters of
which there are no models to be found
in nature : at least, I have in vain en-
deavoured to discover one similar to it
in the world, and in history.

The violent passion of love, and that
disgust which often succeeds it, are to

175

be 4ail7 met with in the common oc-
currences of life j but an unfeigned love
for two distinct objects existing at the
same time, avowed to each of the two
men who inspire it, and justified by-
respect, esteem, and confidence of both,
is a thing unheard of in nature, and ex-
tremely difficult to pourtray with just-
ness and accuracy to the eyes of the
multitude.

After having profoundly studied this
character, and convinced myself that
the spectators, aided by the first im-
pression of the scene, would readily,
and with facility, prepare themselves for
that catastrophe which' every line intro-
duces, I determined within myself, as
^ as lay. in my power, to unite to such

177
advantages as I derived from my own
person, the nobleness, the rriilcjness, the
firmness, and the freedom of the cha-
racter I was to represent.

I exerted myself to the utmost of my
ability, to give to the inflexions of my
voice, and the movements of my coun-
tenance, that touching and expressive
simplicity which characterises a pure
and sensible soul.

Mistress of my physiognomy and ac-
cents, this study was no ways difficult ;
but by what means was I to avoid a
sameness and monotony in expressing
these two co-existing passions ?— how
was I to pourtray their different shades,
without altering the simphcity of the

VOL. I. N

178

characters ? — how avoid an appearance of
infidelity with regard to one of the ob-
jects of my love, and of indelicacy with
regard to the other ? — It seemed to me
impossible to seize the true criterion .-

The first passion, arising solely from
the impressions of the soul, increased
by the charm of a real inclination, nou-
rished by esteem, fear, and regret, ne-
cessarily requires a tint of delicacy and
sensibility different from the other. The
order of a father, the most absolute re-
signation to every virtuous action, even
the illusion of the senses, cannot keep
pace with her profound sense of what
is just, and suitable to her dignity : on
the contrary, they oblige her to sacrifice
her rights to her duty. The character.

179
however, as far as it goes, is certainly
one of the most tender, as well as one
of the most energetic, ever drawn. I
imagined that a different manner of giv-
ing vent to my t^ars might produce
that nice shade of colouring whicji I
sought. Those which I shed for Se-
vere seemed to derive their source from
the bottom of my soul, and flowed a-
bundantly down my face ; while those
which I shed for Polieucte appeared
to escape from my eyes, sometimes
urged by humanity, sometimes by im-
patience. ,

The e.Tect which tears flowing from
two such different sources must in-
dispensably have upon the voice, the
motions of the body, and the expres-

N 2

i80

siofl of the countenance, may be easily
imagined : but/ in order to attain the
proper point of perfection, and not to
exceed it, an actress must have these
four verses continually in her remem-
brance :

Je donnai par devoir a son affection,
Tout ce qne I'autre avait par iaclination ;
Et quoique le dehors foit/ans Amotion,
Le dedans n'est que trouble et que sedition.

OBSERVATIONS

OK THE

CHARACTER OF ROXANE IN BAJAZET.

Roxane is one of those w^retched
beauties, condemned, by the misery and
the humiliating state in which she is
placed, to wish for slavery, as the only
means of arriving at happiness.

ISl

Those slaves who are destined to the
pleasure of a master, not the choice qf
their heart, ai^^d whom their inclina-
tions revolt at — who are either igno-
rant Of regardless of what is due to the
feelings of modesty and decency — who
are watched and confined in the seraglio,
by beings whom they cannot contem-
plate without horror — constantly trem-
bling under the most arbitrary despot-
ism— humbled by remaining too long
among the crowd of slaves, or dread-
ing the disgust of their master, by
which they may be again placed there ;
— is it possible that, so situated, they can
be susceptible of a tender^ free, and
unfeigned passion ? can they form an
idea of real love ? — I think it impossible.
N 3

182

The vanity of triumphing over their
rivals ; the ambition of arriving at the
supreme height of power ; the neces-
sity of intriguing, in order to maintain
it ; and of amassing treasure, in order
to command support, are the principles
by which they are actuated ; the gra-
tification of the senses are the only
sentiments which influence them, the
only passions of v/hich they have the
least idea. The woman who is con-
strained to live under an eternal des-
potism is compelled to contract ha-
bits of fear, dissimulation, and even of
falsehood ; and whatever depresses and
bows down the soul, naturally tends to
prepare it for the impressions of fero-
ciousness, rather than of tenderness.

183
The character of Roxane is precisely
upon this model ; she is continually
ungrateful, haughty, cruel, and am-
bitious.

When the passion of love has pre-
ceded vicious habits, though it is, inca-
pable of inspiring sentiments of re-
morse or humanity, yet it may, never-
theless, exist for some time ; but I do
not think love can possibly take root
in a heart already vitiated. The in-
trigues of the Visier, and the hopes of
arriving at that rank which Amurath
had refused her, are the only motives
which determine her to see Bajazet.

The sight of a man who is younger,
more handsome, and who interests her
N 4

184
more than her master and benefactor,
excites a degree of ferment in her soul
which she mistakes for love 3 but all
that she does, and all that she says,
only prove her actuated by a voluptu-
ous and momentary illusion.

Her vanity wounded, her ambition
disappointed, are the only sotwces of
her tears. The idea of her grandeur
employs all the faculties of her soul.

- Menace is constantly in her mouth;-^
it is with premeditation she prepares
the death of Bajazet ; — she proposes to
be the actor and witness of the assassi-
nation of Atalide, as if it was a just
deed ; — without the least struggle with
herself, without the least remorse, she

185

abandons her Jpver to the mutes who
are at her devotion; — it is with the
most revolting arrogance she heaves
at her feet the niece of the emperor,
and dares to say to her.

Loin de vous separer je pretends aiijourd'hui
Par desncEiids 6ternels vous unir avec lui,
Vous jouirez bientot de son aimable vue, &c.

W£igh well these words; consider
that Bajazet is at the time no more ;
and then judge whether the heart that
is atrocious enough to utter them with
tranquillity can be susceptible of love.
I think she.^prefers Bajazet to Amu-
rath ; but an impulse of desire is not
a sentiment of love — the irritating al-
lurements of the senses, and the ten-
der inclinations of the soul, are dia-
metrically opposite to each other.

186

Let the actress who performs this cha-
racter avoid all expression of' tenderness
and delicacy. An air of desire, repress-
ed by the most rigorous attention to de-
corum, is the only mark of sensibility
her eyes ought to express. In those
parts where she commands or menaces,
her voice should seem lofty and des-
potic, as if she was consious she was
only surrounded by vile and trembling
slaves. — In preserving throughout her
whole deportment that noble air which
the stage requires, and which every
one, whatever may be her general ta-
lents, may possess, introduce, at times,
that kind of masculine dignity of which
the world furnishes so many examples.
In short, while the actress, during three-
fourths of the character, depictures the

187
manners of a cruel sovereign, and one
born to the throne, let her in the other
part be recognised as the insolent slave,
abusing that momentary power for
which she is only indebted to her
beauty.

UPON THE TRAGEDIES OF >L\XLIUS,

AND

VENISE SAUVEE.

There is no character on the stage in
which profound study can be dispensed
with. The more resemblance there
is between ^uch and such characters, or
such and such actions, the greater is
the necessity of describing those shades
by which they are distinguished. We
have for example the same siubject in
Manlius and Venise Sauvce ; the names,'
the language, the action, the person-

188
ages, and the interests of the charac-
ters, are the same. Bat in Manlius the
scene lies at Rome, in the 371st year
from its foundation; and in the other
at Venice, in the 161 Sth year of our
aera. — Discover, by the assistance of
history, the manners of the two differ-
ent places, and the spirit of the times ;
reflect upon the personages, and what
more or less dignity of character they
possessed -, conform all your ideas to
the general opinion of the people of
the times :— you will then feel that it
is impossible to have' the same tone of
voJLce, the same deportment, or the
same spirit and style of acting, in the
one as in the other.

l$9

UPON CORNELIE,
iN THE DEATH OF POMPEY.

The public opinion has ev€r deemed
the character of Cornelie one of the
finest on the stage. — Having to perform
this character, I studied it with all the
attention of which I was capable. No
one has ever succeeded me in it. The
modulation which I wished to establish,
with reference to the historical charac-
ter, was not altogether congenial to the
theatrical one; in as much as the for-
mer appeared to me noble, simple, and
expressive ; the latter, masculine, de-
clamatory, and cold. I guarded against
the idea that the public and Corneille
were both wrong. My vanity did not
extend to that point ; but, in order to
compromise the matter, I determined

190

to be silent, and never to perform
Cornelie. Since my retreat, the Com-
mentarks upon Corneille, and the word
esprit, in Les Rations Encyclopediques,
by Voltaire, have been published.
Read them : — if I am deceived, the
example of so great a man w'A\ console
me I

PHEDRE.

The character of Phedre is one of
the finest on the stage. There is no
one that is better written, and, conse-
quently, no one more easy to learn and
retain.

It requires no study of a local na-
ture, no research into the manners of
a particular tifne or place. Phedre is

191
a woman who is the slave cf her unre-
strained passions ; and such a character
is the same in every country. She has
betrayed her sister : she is a wife, a
mother, and a queen. It is easy to
impart to her age and experience that
tone of voice and deportment which
are just, natural, and requisite. Every
one endowed with sensibility, every im-
petuous character, may easily find with-
in her own breast, or by an attention
to what passes daily before her eyes,
the means of describing a violent pas-
sion. Racine has marked, from act to
act, the gradations to be observed in
that of Phedre. Follow the author
exactly -, endeavour to attain his mean-
ing i but avoid pretending to suppress
Jt. All that is required of you, when

392

you have arrived at a perfect know-
ledge of your autlior, is a countenance
capable of variety, of expression, a com-
manding voice, but at the same time
calculated to excite emotions of tender-
ness.

Phedre is torn by remorse ; — it is
a remorse, real and uninterrupted,
throughout the whole play. The ac-
knowledgment of her passion in the
first act, the reasons by which she j us-
tiiies it, and her death in the fifth, are
proofs of what I assert. Her virtue
v/ould, doubtless, have surmounted her
passion, if that passion had produced
only" the usual errors of the senses, and
of the imagination : but the unhappy
phedre yields to the power of Venus -,

193

a superior force hurries her continually
on to act and to say what her virtue
condemns. Throughout the whole of
her character, this struggle should be
present to the eyes and imagination of
the spectator. I would advise, for the
expression of- remorse, a simple dic-
tion, noble yet tender accents, a pro-'
fusion of tears, a countenance deeply
affected; and, for the expression of love,
a sort of delirium and insensibility, si-
milar to that of a somnambulist, who
preserves, in the arms of sleep, the re-
membrance of the fire which consumed
him when waking. — I took this idea
from the following verses,

Dieux ! que ne suis-je assise a I'ombre dcs forcts I
Quand pourrai-je 4 travers d'une noble poussi^re
Suivre de I'oeil un char fuyant dans la carrit-re ?
VOL. I, O

194

..... lasensee ! Ou suis-je, et qu*ai-jc dit ?
Ou laissai-je egarer mes voeux et rnon esprit ?
Je I'ai perdu — les dieux m'ont ravi I'usage, &c.

In the scene, in the second act, with
Hyppolite, I would recite the first
couplet in a low and trembling voice,
and without daring to raise my eyes.
At the moment the sound of his voice
struck my ear, my whole person should
evince that pleasing trepidation, which
souls of real sensibility experience, by
reflecting on the past.

The second couplet should be ex-
pressed by a different emotion. My
words should appear to be interrupted
by the violent palpitation of my heart,
and not by fear.

195

In the third, myeyes,enflamed by love,
and, at the same time, repressed by virtue,
should manifest the conflict in my soul.

' In the fourth, this conflict is more
violent ; but love triumphs.

In the fifth it reigns predominant;
and I then assume a deportment ex-
pressive of dignity and propriety.

The delirium of the second act is
produced by the conflict of contending
passions ; that of the fourth act by de-
spair and terror. In the first be atten-
tive that the whole countenance, the
voice, and the action, may be engaging,
tender, and caressing. Preserve the ve-
hemence of passion for the other,
o 2

196

The couplet which terminates this
scene has always embarrassed me : none
of my attempts have satisfied mc. Whe-
ther it is, that sixty cmpassioned verses,
which scarce allow time to take breath,
are beyond the powers of human nature;
whether it is, that, admirable as these
verses are, the conflict they describe is,
in fact, too long j whether it is beyond
my capacity to pourtray such a picture
of love and remorse, with that just
shade and colouring: which should dis-
play those passions in a prominent point
of view at the same time ; yet, so the
fact is, I have always found insur-
mountable difficulties in this passage;
and I am obliged to confess that, in
speaking and acting it to the very ut-
most of my power, I have always been

197
far Inferior to the author's ideas, as well
as my own. But to 'form conceptions
while reading a work, and to express
those conceptions by action, are two very
different things.

' There are various other remarks which
might be made upon this cliaracter. I
have confused ideas of many important
things that might be pointed out ; but
I dare not trust to my memory, which
has not distinctly preserved the first im-
pressions it received. I am no longer
adequate to the fatigue of any very pro-
found researches, and I am apprehen-
sive of betraying myself into errors by
entering into details of which I have but
an imperfect recollection.

o 3

193

BLANCHE,
IN BLANCHE AND GUISCARD.

I know no character which is more
agreeable to perform than that of
Blanche. It requires no great deal of
previous study, either as to time, place,
or its appropriate dignity. A passion
which has taken its birth in the security
of infancy, increased by simplicity of
soul, and habitual confidence ; a senti-
ment of respect and obedience due to
the author of her days ; a mind formed
to the purest dictates of nature, render
this character so simple and easy, that it
is impossible for any actress, who pos-
sesses the principles of her profession,
and has a tolerable capacity, to fail play-
ing it well.

199
All the great personages of antiquity
impose upon us the duty of forgetting
ourselves. It is only by the greatest
efforts, by the most profound studies,
that we can attain the faculty of depic-
turing those different passions, which,
all proceeding from the same point, are
continually reverting to it, and there-
fore require a constant variety in the
inflexions of the voice, the expression
of the countenance, and the deport-
ment of the person. At the same time
that it is an indispensable duty to pre-
serve, unaltered, the consistency of the
character, — such, for example, as is re-
quired to express the passion, the vir-
tue, the jealousy, and the remorse of
Phcdre, — there are, in particular, four
expressions of shame, all of which de-
o 4

200

mand different shades. In the first act,
when she entrusts the secret of her
love to (Enone : in the second, when
she has been too explicit with Hyppo-
lite : in the third, when she appears be-
fore her husband, and in the presence of
the youth who is insensible to.her love,
and who disdains her : in the fourth,
when she reflects upon the nature of
her crime, and expresses the dread she
is under, that when her soul leaves this
world she v/ill be forced to acknow-
ledge it. All these require different
tints or shades to express them : the
countenance, the speech, must be dif-
ferent. The first must describe a virtu-
ous woman, who would die rather than
fail in her duty, and who yields not,
but through the last extremity : the

201

second should paint her under the do-
minion of her passion, and anxious how
the object of her love will encourage
it : the third needs no other expression
than that of embarrassment and re-
morse. Though she has said to CEnone,
** Fais ce qui tu voudras^" — ** Acl with
me as you think proper -j" yet we must
not suppose she was sensible of the
importance of this consent ; she would
no longer be the same character. It
must never be lost sight of, that she
is virtuous from principle, and only-
criminal by the will of the gods. Her
shame, in the fourth act, proves it; and
that shame ought to express, in the
most vehement and empassioned man-
ner, her terror, her ^-emorse, and her
virtue. — Vv'hat a task for an actress !

202

I dare affirm that it is beyond human
powers to surmount the difficulties this
character presents in every verse. What-
ever have been my effi^rts, my medita-
tions, my researches, all I can flatter
myself v^ith is, that, perhaps , I have a
few less faults than others. In playing
Blanche, I always thought myself in
my own chamber. My physiognomy,
my inflexions, united, without art or
study, to the sensibility of my soul.
By nature tender and generous, I was
susceptible of all the fears, the suspi-
cions, and disappointments of love.
When I played Blanche, I was always
myself. It is the only character which
never cost me any toilsome study. But
if she who performs it does not adhere
to the purity of nature, — if love is not

203

the only sentiment of her heart, she
will have many difficulties to over-
come. Talents which are not beyond
mediocrity seek resource in sudden ex-
clamations, violence of gesture, and un-
usual modes of expression : this must
be avoided in giving effect to the softer
passions. By recurring to art, we may
be able to attain the faculty of pour-
traying the more violent passions and
sentiments ; but art can never teach an
actress how to simplify a character. It
is nature alone to whom we must re-
sort, in order to paint the delicate
shades which distinguish candour and
artless innocence, the light tints which
pourtray the early sensations of pure
and uncorrupted youth, and the strik-
ing and noble simplicity which emanate

204.

from a soiil undebased by the, ruder
passions. Art can only depicture what
is grand. If you repress the bold ef-
forts of its pencil, — if you weaken its
colouring, you leave merely a repre-
sentation of simple and unsophisticated
nature.

M. Saurin, the author of Blanche,
Spartacus, Les Mcsurs de Beierley, and
many other interesting works, was a
man eminent by the wisdom and judg-
ment displayed in his writings. His
manners were pure, his style pleasing,
lively and correct ; and his conduct and
probity rendered him dear to his friends,
and the admiration of the public. It
is with a remembrance, no less delight-
ful to ray soul than flattering to my

eo5

vanity, that I recall the charms of his
society, and the friendship with which
he honoured me.

The four principal characters in
Blanche were reprCvSented by Le Kain,
Mole, Brisard, and myself. The ha-
bitual kindness of the public, our ef-
forts to merit it, and the interest of the
piece itself, left us no room to doubt
of success. We particularly depended
on the applause and admiration of the
female part of the audience. Those
pure and tender passions, the result of
an education proportioned to female
delicacy, strengthened by the duties
they owed as wives and mothers, ap-
peared to us reasons which rendered our
success certain. Our expectations were

206

deceived — the women abandoned us—
,the youthful part of the audience fol-
lowed their example ; we had only the
support of a few men, divested of pre-
judice, and wearied of the tumult of
tlie world. Notwithstanding the merit
of the author, and our own talents,
the success of the piece was but in-
different. The desire of discovering
new lights, which might improve my
talents, and my habit of endeavour-
ing to find a reason for every thing,
induced me to explore the causes of a
failure which I was at a loss to account
for. The result of my inquiry was,.
that real love, affection, and genuine
purity of manners, were antiquated
chimeras, whose very names were a
satire upon our modern manners.

207

OBSERVATIONS

UPON M. DE LA TOUCHE, and his Tragedy

OK IPHIGENIE IN TAURIS.

M. Guymond de la Touche, author
of Iphlgenie in Tauris, was my intimate
friend. Never can I think of his loss
without the most painful regret : but
whatever violence I may do my own
feelings, I am impelled to make some
.observations upon his tragedy; and, by
^ giving some account of the author,
interest those who admire him, and
inform those who have criticised his
work.

Born of parents who were distin-
guished for their piety, M. de la Touche

208

entered into the society of the Jesuit*
at the age of fourteen. Penetrated with
the desire of practising his religion,
and of instructing himself in whatever
was connected with it, and might enable
him to support its doctrines, he deter-
mined within himself never to leave the
convent, but to lead a solitary life, and
devote all his hours to the study of
theology and history. After fourteen
years application, he confessed that his
doubts daily increased. He became
disgusted with his situation, and quit-
ted it.

Absorbed by the importance of his
reflections, removed far from every ob-
ject of temptation, his senses enjoyed
the most happy tranquillity. He had

soy

no idea of the world into which he had
entered. — • Our manners and customs
equally astonished and intimidated him;
and the embarrassment of his deport-
ment in his new situation, his reserve,
fe^r, and modesty, to which he had ha-
bituated himself, induced those who
did not know him to believe that he
was a man of moderate talents ^ but his
scrupulous probity, his frankness and
artless manner?, the simplicity of his
expressions, and the profundity of his
knowledge, distinguished him in the
eyes of those who were acquainted with
him, and had obtained his confidence,
as one of the most interesting characters.
The first moments of his liberty were
devoted to the public spectacles ; in
praise of which he was continually

VOL. I. P

210

hearing every one speak, without an-»
nexing any determinate idea as to the
eiFect of them. He was passionately
fond of tragedy. My acting pleased
him. He composed his Iphigenie with
incredible rapidity. The marchioness
de Graffigny, at whose house he lived,
brought me first acquainted with the
author and his work. The modesty of
M. de la Touche, his aversion to enco-
mium, and the docility with which he
adopted the corrections of others, form-
ed a contrast to authors in general, which
was perfectly new to me.

I o£fered his play to the performers,
who, surprised at finding so many beau-
ties in a first composition, received it
without making the slightest correction.

211

However, on the day when we were to
represent it for the first time, we disco-
vered, in the course of the previous re-
hearsal, so many defects in the fifth act,
that we desired the author to alter the
catastrophe, as well as one or two hun-
dred verses, assuring him that we would
not separate till we had learnt the whole
of the alterations he should make. He
was near an hour ; the act was entirely
altered by the author, and studied by
the performers. The curtain rose at half
after five, and the piece was received
with the most unbounded applause. —
Such an effort certainly demanded all
the zeal, memory, and capacity of the
performers -, but what must have been
the merit of that man who could ar-
range a plot, and compose two hundred
p 2

21g

Tf!kwWt'r§&^ fh die c<>WFse of two li ours,
surrounded, at the same time, by twenty
persons to whom he was dictating, and
possessing no knowledge of the theatre>
or of the public who was to judge of his
production? My reason instructed me
to distrust my own weak judgment, and
Sie enthusiasm with which friendship
inspired me j but, without determ^ining
on what M. dc la Touche would one
day pFove, I thought 'myself justified in
%^lieving that the study of Corneille,
Rabinej and Voltaire, had classed his
ideas, formed his style, developed that
genius he had derived from nature, and
thit he merited to be reckoned the next
in order after those three great men.

* His death, as sudden as it was extra-

218

ordinary, has deprived us of die 8e6on4
tragedy on whi,ch he was employedk
He entrusted the sub]ect of it to me j!
but, diffident of himself, and desiroua
of knowing the extent of his talerltjr
ht determined not to communicate his
work to any of his friends till it should
be entirely finished, and then to submit
it to their approbation and criticism j-
and, according as they should deter-
mine, either to pursue or quit the career
he had entered upon. This work, it is
supposed, he destroyed > at least, it has
never been discovered. Iphigenie is all
that remains of his genius. It is a task
I have imposed upon myself to guide
my companions on the stage, to a tho-
rough knowledge of those characters
which I have performed. The on© I
P 3

214
am now speaking of presents subjects
worthy of remark, from the first to the
last verse. To understand the author,
and perfectly comprehend the character,
it is necessary to read and study the work
with attention, from beginning to end.
I must observe, that the unity of the
play gives it an appearance of mono-
tonous insipidity, unless the actress, by
the varied expression of her counte-
nance, and the appropriate flexibility of
her voice, renders it gradually animated
and interesting.— Form a just estimate
of your powers and resources ; manage
them with address ; evince capacity in
the proper distribution of them, and,
without remitting your ardour, make
them conduct you to the attainment of
that perfection which is your object.

215

Above all things, vary the tw^o different
degrees of sorrow w^hich you have to
express. Those vs^hich flow from the
long continuance of your misfortunes
ought to be expressed in all the vehe-
mence and bitterness of woe : those
which are a tribute to humanity, ought
to be tranquil and unempassioned.

When the captives are released from
their chains, in the second act, advance
from the bottom of the theatre till you
come even with Pylades, who is nearest
you ; then stop and survey him with a
noble and compassionate air; but in such
a manner as not to seem to reproach his
misfortune -, then proceed onward, and
observe Orestes. I may be allowed to
assert, that you will not be able to con -
p 4

template him without being sensi-
ble of a certain degree of trouble
and surprise. Take time to survey
liim ; dp not let your eyes quit him ;
but, with a low and agitated voice,
pronounce, ^e/s traits et quel mairi'
iien I ^k^MWA-.

In the same scene, when you are in-
terrogating Orestes, and Pylades is eager
Xq answer for him, observe the latter
with an air of superiority, mingled with
mildness, and, by a sign at once digni-
fied and graceful, desire him to be silent
and to retire.

Let all your questions respecting
your family be made with the greatest
simplicity.

£17

Let only so much of your joy and
grief be observable, as the force of na-
ture betrays in spite of your efforts to
the contrary. The greater your exer-
tions are to conceal your tears, the
more impressive should be their effect
when they do flow. Those seeming
trifles are of the utmost importance. I
never allowed myself to neglect a sin-
gle action or word that could possibly
be serviceable to the scene. An ac-
tress cannot, by every word she utters,
produce a striking and sensible effect ;
hut she ought not to use one word
without conveying some sort of im-
pression. In the course of the piece,
Iphigenie appears as a mild, sensible,
and humane character : notwithstand-
ing the excess of her misfortunes, she

21S

does not give way to vehement and
empassioned complaints, — only in the
fifth act, when she says,

Mais de quel-droit ici me commande ta rage ?

and in the rest of the scene she must
xmite all the haughtiness of high birth,
all the authoritative dignity she de-
riv£s from the knowledge of a sacred
mystery, and all that confidence and
courage which are ever inspired by
virtue.

I requested that no other than my-
self should be allowed to act this cha-
racter while I remained at the theatre.
The sentiments of friendship, by which
I was actuated,, made me apprehensive
of the indispensable errors of inexpe-
rience. I never played it myself with-

219

out having recourse to new researches.
The desire of being deemed to possess
great talents made me more uneasy
with regard to this character than any
other. Since my retreat, 1 have wit-
nessed its performance by two dijfferent
actresses. The one was dignified, no-
ble, and beautiful, but was far from
possessing that degree of sensibility
which I required : the other was hand-
some, but without any distinguishing
characteristic ; she displeased me by
the distortions of her features, and still
more by the indecency of her action
and the low familiarity of her utter-
ance ', yet did this actress derive from
nature a voice capable of conveying the
tenderest impression, and of command-
ing the tear of sensibihty.

220

I was persuaded that none went to
a tragedy, but for the purpose of raising
their imaginations beyond the ordinary
pitch of human nature, and, from the,
personages of antiquity, to receive les- .
sons of nobleness, decency, courage,
and grandeur of soul. How inadequate
must be the impression, when an actresis^
riepresents the manners of a simple
Grisette before those who expect to be-
hold a queen \ If you would prove
that you possess talent, elevate yourself
to the personage you are representing.
By placing the character on a level with
yourself, you only show your oWn ig-
norance.

2QI

THETWOELECTRES.
I think I shall offend none of those
who pursue the same career as my^
self, by supposing that they possess as
much ignorance, as many defects, and
as great a portion of self-love as I did
in my youth.

The applause I received^ the hopes
I gave of future celebrity, the compli-
ments addressed to me from ail part?,
the adulations of those admirers with
which I was surrounded, the exaggera-
tion of fools, and the jealousy of mV
companions, made me think myself the
greatest actress that had ever been seei>
on the stage. When I heard the names
of mesdemoiselles Lecouvreur and Dc
Seine, I expressed the same degree of

222

disdain which those who have succeeded
me have expressed when my name has
been mentioned. — It will always be so :
but sooner or latter an actress must
learn to know herself, and to correct
her errors : the longer we conceal them,
the further we are from truth : and
it is only by seeking Truth, by dis-
covering her, and by following her
footsteps, an actress can acquire ta-
lents. As the sole object I have in
view is that of showing the principles
by which I have, been guided in my
theatrical pursuits, I trust I shall be
excused for citing myself as an exam-
ple of too much vanity.

Mademoiselle Lecouvreur no longer
exists : I, therefore, will not call her

merits in question. Mademoiselle dc
Seine, who has retired from the stage
these ten years, exactly followed the
path in which I had trod j and the ap-
plauses she bestowed upon me, in the
character of Electre, in which she had
been pre-eminent, nearly turned my
brain, so much did I feel myself gra-
tified by them.

I moved heaven and earth to gain
her acquaintance, and induce her to
recite part of the verses to me. A
common friend to each of us procured
me the satisfaction I desired.

When she entered my room, I ob-.
served a woman evidently in the de-
cline of life, and f^r from possessing.

3124

that dignified and commandingappcar-*
ance which I expected. Her dress was
slovenly and carelessly put on. The
sound of her voice, and the manner in
which she spoke, would have made me
believe, if I had not seen her, that an
inexperienced girl was addressing me.
My triumph was complete : her re-
fusal to recite before me I construed
into an avowal of her own inability,
and my superiority. At length, she
consented to repeat part of the third
act of Electre, and I had arranged in
my mind a well-turned compliment,
which, however unmerited I supposed
it would be on her part, I conceived I
could not in good manners dispense
with. But the air tof dignity she as-
sumed when she rose, and ranged the

225
chairs, in order to form a sort of the-
atre and scenes, the change I observed
in her appearance, the moment she pre-
pared to speak, produced a total de-
rangement of all my ideas. My va-
nity v^'as silent ; I felt tears already in
my eyes : but v^hen she did speak, the
accents of her despair, the deep ex-
pression of grief on her countenance,
the noble, and, at the same time, natu-
ral appearance of her whole deport-
ment, penetrated my soul, enlightened
it, and made me sensible how very far
I was inferior to her. To punish my
impertinent presumption, and to cor-
rect it in future, I have made a candid
avowal of it.

Emulation is absolutely necessary to

VOL. I. Q^

226

an actress: we should never make any
progress without it ; but we should stu-
diously guard against the errors of va*
nity.

Let us now speak of the two Electrcs
who are at present upon the theatre.

They are both characters of the same
description, their relative situations are
the same, and the want of proper instruc-
tion can alone account for their being per-
formed exactly like each other. When
I first learnt that of Crebillon, I scarce
had read of Agamemnon, his family, or
his misfortunes. History — Sophocles —
were equally unknown to me. I mere-
ly discovered a princess afflicted by the
death cf her father, and desirous of

227
the destruction of his assassins. It ap-
peared to me easy to pourtray these sen-
timents; they are engraved on every
honest heart. She was in love; that
was easy to describe. Her choice, in-
deed, appeared rather beneath her cha-
racter ; however, nothing deterred me,
.nothing restrained me, and the public
thought I played the character pre-
cisely as it had been drawn. But
when, after a few years' labour and re-
flection, I endeavoured to give the part
that national characteristic, and distin-
guishing feature, which belonged to it,
I found myself wholly at a loss ; I could
not reconcile to the character those sen-
timents of love and vengeance which
were painted by the author. — To love
the son .of her oppressor, the son of

22S
the assassin of Agamemnon -, to aban-
don herself to a passion which no he-
roism, no hope of vengeance could jus-
tify, was irreconcileable to my feel-
ings ; and Electre appeared to me a de-
based and degraded character, a mixture
of gold and dross, which it was be-
yond my powers to describe. I re- .
nounced it, and for ever quitted it
from the moment that the Electre of
Voltaire appeared; Wh^t a fine cha-
racter is this latter !-— If I had been com-
pelled never to have performed but one
upon the stage, this should have been
my choice ; not that I do not render to
others that tribute of admiration they
deserve,* not that I do not derive infi-
nite gratification in performing them ;
but my partiality and taste for antiqui-

229

ty, my desire to incorporate into all my
characters the manners of the times and
countries, when, and in which they ex-
isted, have frequently been a source of
extreme difficulty to me; and, not-
withstanding all my efforts, there are
many characters which I must still
leave to my cotemporaries, and to
France. I have nothing to dissemble,
nothing further to add; the only labour
required is, that the actress shall ele-
vate her soul and her genius to the cha-
racter she is to represent.

Whoever ye may be, who m^ay un-
dertake this character, study it, observe
it, comprehend its minutest shades and
distinctions. Common -rate abilities

230

are incapable of attempting it. Sacri-
fice your habits and your personal af-
fections to it ; forget that ye are hand-
some; avoid endeavouring to appear
so. Employ at your toilets no more of
art than will induce the public to be-
lieve what they behold is nature with-
out art. Let no elegant drapery or fa-
shionable adornment destroy that no-
ble and affecting picture of distress and
sorrow which ye are to represent.

Electre is supposed to be more than
thirty years old. There are some cha-
racters, who, at the age of fifteen, are
weighed down by misery and grief.
I would have depictured on the coun-
tenance of her who performs Electre

23 1

the traces of long-continued sorrow i
"her face should be an indication of the
tears that have flowed for a long series
of years.

Do not forget that time drains the
sources of grief: — tears flowing in
abundance imply recent misfortunes.
It is therefore necessary to discriminate
with respect to the cause of them.
Electre ought not to shed tears in the
two first acts : all that is to be inferred
from her cxpressions.is, that she wishes
to shed them ; but the consolation they
aflbrd to a mind distressed would calm
the impetuosity of her character, and,
consequently, would weaken it. In or-
der that I might seem as if a tear was

23i2

ready to start from my eye, I have had
recourse to that peculiar tone of voice
which is expressive of distress, and,
at the same time, that kind of contrac-
tion of the stomach vv'hich produced
a tremulousness of the nerves and dif-
ficulty of respiration, which indicated
the agitation of my soul. These me-
thods are .as destructive to our health
S.5 they are useful to the acquirement
of talent. I know, and feel the truth
of what I assert; but in whatever situa-
tion I may be placed, and however I
may value existence, I would sacrifice
every thing to glory.

The scene where the urn is intro-
duced requires abundance of tears ; it
is a new misfortune, and forms the

235
completion of those which preceded it ;
it forces every barrier. But let those
tears you shed seem as if they came
from the bottom of your soulj and,
without employing exclamations or ve-
hemence, let them appear as much the
effect of real grief as possible. In the
fourth act, where it is said,

Mon sort, a vos destins, n'est il pas asservi ? &c.

appear to be gradually penetrated with
that mild and consolotary affliction
which a pure and undisguised passion
frequently imparts.

Remember, in particular, that true
grandeur has simplicity for its basis;
that great characters, great misfor-
tunes, and difHcult situations, require a
commanding countenance, an expressive

VOL, I. R

234
voice, and a dignified deportment. Act
as I have done ; and if you cannot attain
perfection, endeavour, as far as lays in
your povsrer, to advance towards itj an4
prove to the public, if you should fail,
that it is not for want of study, atten?
tion, and perseverance.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

Frinied by S. Hamilton,

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